Least of These
by J. T. O'Connell
Summary: This is a new story that takes place during the first Hunger Games book and lines up with the others. Most of the characters are new as well. If you would like a copy for an e-reader, email me: jtoconnell at twistedlexicon dot com.
1. Chapter 1

**PART I**

"THE GRIND"

1

I'm waking up. I can tell by the dull ache in my chest that quivers the dry lump in my throat. The house is empty, a single story with four rooms and a bathroom, lavish in District 11, but horrifyingly empty.

There's that ache, now gnawing away behind my still-closed eyes. The return of purpose should follow soon. His haunting, crooked smile captivates every waking second, sometimes fades the colors of this world into an unrecognizable slurry of gray.

Every day is a struggle and this one begins like any other, like they all have lately. I urge my eyes to crack open, groaning at the dim walls. Before the sun emerges from a mere glow on the horizon, my feet drop out onto the worn carpet. They're weak again, always are. I take a deep breath and hold it. I have to start the routine. If I don't, there isn't a chance of leaving the house today.

Come on, Kippen Silvernale, time to start another day. My conscious thoughts try to convince my body to move. I don't toss about in my sleep, these days. Excessive stillness stiffens the joints. In response to my mental will, my stomach just aches, not for breakfast; for something, anything. Anything other than what this life has given me, what others have taken away. I stand up from the bed and lean against the wall to steady myself. My knees are shaking a little. That usually goes away after ten minutes or so. At 42, I'm too young for this incapacity.

Sauntering down the hall, I can hear Meyla, already in the kitchen. A rich scent of coffee seizes my attention. Meyla has a fire going in the cast iron stove, a rarity in District 11. She pours a mug of the brew and sets it down on the table. It's strong and draws out the last of my fatigue as soon as the first sip warms my throat. Even still the quirky jitter in my knees remains so I sit down.

My wife is beautiful, even disheveled from sleep. In the faint light of candles, her slim form exudes grace with every movement. Meyla has the softest eyes, like those of a fawn. Her light brown hair would see a brush soon today and her gentle image will be complete.

Beneath her eyes, I can see she's been crying already this morning. I wish she wasn't depressed, although the truth is, no one can't help her with this; not even me. When my wife looks at me, she only sees Mason's eyes. He got his quirky lip expressions from her and as ashamed as I am to say it, Meyla's beautifully bereft face burns simmering coals in my stomach, though she used to stir excitement in my heart. Truthfully, we're past that now, past seeing Mason in each other. It's just the excuse I have to tell myself whenever circumstance is called into question. This is the cost of the hand we got from the deck and I have to play it out.

Mason was my son, my only child. Of course, he had become a young man by the time the "accident" happened. He had endured his very last reaping without being selected and subsequently dedicated his efforts to learning my trade and chasing pretty girls. I remember the last time we had spoken, not because it was special. It was just everyday Mason. My son was a riot, telling stories of the crazy things he and his friends would do.

That afternoon he and I were eating sack lunches in the plaza when he told a group of people a story of how he had tried to impress a girl. "Sandrea wasn't even paying attention so I thought it'd get her attention if I jumped to a branch just near her and barely catch it." I remember his arms reaching for the sky and his mouth twisting out his humorous, slow-motion self-impression.

"And I jump and at first I just see her rushing up nearer but then I start to drop too early." He laughs, mouth tilted to one side. At this point, everyone at the table is already chuckling, myself included. "All I see is this branch just zipping out of my vision!" His face contorts with shock and panic. "I'm reaching for the sky and have nothing but the long quick way to go. Whoosh!" His fingers no longer reach, they brace for impact.

"Luckily, a few branches broke my fall on the way down to the irrigation ditch." Mason looks at his hands and I wince at the scars that have shown up over his short years. "And it actually worked. Splashing in the mud got Sandrea's attention, but not the sort I was looking for!" Raucous laughter pounds over the table. Even one of the Peacekeepers, listening a table over from us, breaks an amused grin.

My boy was a delight and not just to his parents. More than a few people had given the kindest words of consolation at his funeral. The fact is, without Mason, it's a struggle to find any meaning, any drive to draw breath. I still haven't come up with the reason I got out of bed. Habit, I suppose. But why had I formed this habit, again?

Oh, yes, a violent storm is approaching. That's right. A new wave of things to sweep through. I do have a purpose, even if it requires me to pen up my anguish for another day. Maybe just a few more.

There is a broad triangular plaza in the center of our city for which the municipality is named, Three Corners. It's always alive with people if daylight is around or approaching. More so than usual today as teams move about, setting up the decorations for tomorrow's reaping.

Even though it's easier labor than working in the fields, few volunteer. No one wants to be involved with those… events. Jobs are assigned to people and festivities are dispersed around the plaza according to a plan created by some bureaucrat in the Justice Building, a forced effort futilely trying to disguise the squalor and misery of District 11 with some meager banners and flower wreaths.

None of it really matters to us, we residents of the districts. The elaborate decorations are all for the people in the Capitol and sometimes I wonder whether we have to use them so the Capitol citizens really believe that we enjoy the Hunger Games. As if we would have ever agreed to their Treaty of Treason. We never had the option to agree or disagree.

My breath huffs out in disgust. I wrap my fingers tighter around my equipment bag's handles. Harvest trucks don't come through the plaza since it's usually flush with vendors. Instead of huts, today I have to weave my path around all the busy sections being cordoned off with shiny ribbon to separate children into age groups during the ceremony tomorrow afternoon.

Work has been tough lately and the upcoming reaping makes my lack of focus even worse. It's bad enough to have to go to the Peacekeeper Main Office in District 11 every single day, the unyielding surface of Capitol's hammer. The Office is a four story building on the edge of the plaza, running up one main street quite a way.

The Main Office isn't just a precinct for the Capitol's police force. It's the center of all Peacekeeper operations in District 11 and with 17,000 residents to oversee and press in the fields, the Peacekeepers have plenty of duties to direct. They also have all their local training centers located in the sub-level. The two wings in the rear of the building are bunk housing compartments for Peacekeepers: one for those who haven't opted to apply for officer's training, and the other, nicer wing for officers and enlistees selected for officer's training. The building itself is one of the largest in District 11, massive by our standards, though dwarfed by the Capitol's skyscrapers. I know because I've been there and seen them.

I push my way through a group of young Peacekeepers leaving a side door. They're wearing the mandated minimum for Peacekeepers, off duty uniforms, looser fits of the grays and greens. A few of them scowl at me as the rest shove on by, refusing to acknowledge a native, despite my slightly taller than average frame. Peacekeepers don't generally care for residents of our district. I count as nothing more than a resident, even though I was appointed to my job by the Capitol.

The guard at the door recognizes me, yet still demands to see paperwork documenting my responsibilities, duties which permit me access to the Main Office. Stepping through the doorway, I immediately hike the heavy equipment bag down a maze of hallways, passing more checkpoints, finally arriving at a sublevel stairwell which leads down to the Office's foundation.

I spent two years being educated in a sequestered section of Capitol City. It was a designated a university with a special program for those district residents specially selected. As a teenager, my testing showed high aptitude for comprehension and problem solving so I was required to apply for special training. My assignment was structural engineer, a new post in District 11, created by the Capitol.

Most of the buildings in Three Corners were built well before the Dark Days, seventy some odd years ago. During the rebellion, many of the structures had been damaged and only superficial maintenance had been carried out. The Capitol doesn't want to spend any more resources on the districts than necessary, so even the Peacekeeper building was subject to inspection and repair, rather than replacement. My job is to inspect, identify possible problems, and repair all of the Capitol's stone-facade buildings.

The sublevel is a more traditional grid work of rooms, dissimilar to the maze-complex on the above-ground levels. I pass by several classrooms, a number of large storage warehouses, a close-quarters firing range, and a massive gym.

Finally, I arrive in a great atrium with an open view of circular balconies all around the floors above. Twelve massive pillars are spaced in an enormous circle around the expanse, reaching to the roof, thinning ever so slightly near their peaks. The gigantic, stone columns are secured to a steel lattice concealed within and holding up the roof.

Granite and faux stone was all the rage among Panem's architects a hundred years ago when the government erected these buildings. The structures I looked at in the Capitol were superficially very different. On the other hand, the general engineering principles remain the same. With an echoing thud, the equipment bag dully hits the floor and my fingers stretch to open fully.

I haven't analyzed these pillars before. Most of the past two decades I spent working on the Justice Building, and could probably spend the next decade just restoring that structure, if it weren't too difficult to work there. My breath sighs out again, as my hands set about this task.

It only takes moments to assemble the crawler around the first pillar. Just a few screws and then attach the power pack and it's ready to climb. That is, it's ready if my batteries got enough charge while the electric was on last night for an hour. District 11 only has its power come on for a short period each evening, if that. Sometimes the power is out for a few days, almost as if the Capitol just forgets to flip on the switch now and then. I would rather not charge the batteries on the much more consistent flow of electricity that the Capitol grants the government buildings.

A faint light on the battery glows green; ready to go. I draw out a few dozen feet of power wire and lay the cable to the side. With a number command on a keypad, the crawler comes to life. The apparatus is simple: eight aluminum pipes with rubber wheels mounted on the inside. Telescopic struts extend until the wheels equalize pressure against the pillar and then ground-penetrating radar starts to hum quietly and the whole mechanism begins an agonizingly slow crawl up the pillar.

A typical cycle for the crawler takes around two minutes per foot of pillar, and this reading will only go halfway up. The memory chip in the crawler will run out of room so I will have to bring the device down to replace the chip. For now I decide to pour over copies of the floor plans that I have seen hundreds of times before.

Almost immediately, my focus fades. The quiet morning is getting to me. Back at the Justice Building was where _it_ happened, on a fresh spring day when our agriculture countryside district was coming to life.

Mason was still ecstatic over his nineteenth birthday and had left early to install rigging for a scheduled replacement of several steel girders in the roof of that enormous, temple-like building. He went to work early whenever he could so we could occasionally quit early.

There was a crowd around the building that day when I got there. Peacekeepers had established a line across the wide front steps. As I was pushing my way through the throng of people, a Captain of the local Peacekeepers singled me out immediately, although I had never met him before. His face is fuzzy from that day. I really doubt I saw it. My mind probably fills in those details from later memories. All I remember is seeing my son's crumpled form was sprawled on the steps, crushed from the force of momentum and gravity.

I'm jerked back to the present when something hits my hand. The skin is damp with a lonely teardrop; another has stained the dusty ink, blotchy on a spot of the Main Office floor plans. My expression hadn't changed on my face, despite my weeping eyes.

I roll up the plans and dab my face with a shirt sleeve, swallowing the lump in my throat. It's doubtful anyone will care to notice me since I'm always in one of these buildings doing something that _looks_ like engineering, for all anyone knows. Still, I would rather not be seen mourning nine full months after Mason's burial. It feels like just yesterday.

With concerted effort, I manage to center on the present and check where the crawler is; about six feet up from the floor, so far. This is going to be a long day, but tomorrow will be even longer. Mason had just escaped his last reaping when he died. My sister, Hannah, has a line six of children about to fall subject to the raffle. Rue, my oldest niece, turned twelve a month after Mason's fall. She sang a heartbreakingly beautiful song at his burial…

Hannah and Marek have been terrified for Rue especially because she took out six tesserae on her twelfth birthday. Meyla and I were so stricken with grief for our departed son, it never occurred to either of us to increase the sum of money we give the Amaranth family each month. We hardly need quite as much as I earn, without the expense of a child. Meyla and I were mortified to discover Rue's monthly exchange; low-grade grain and thin oil for six extra entries in the reaping, worsening her odds in the drawing.

One of the rolls of floor plans tears as I cram them back into the bag. The crawler is only nine feet up. Maybe an hour left to go before the chip fills up. I decide to walk up to the crawl space where the girders are concealed and see if I can at least refresh my mind. My flashlight glares off the polished pillar, confirming that it works until my finger presses the button again.

A few minutes walk and I'm back on the first floor, moving through the Main Office, avoiding areas where the guards would give me a hard time. Probably half of the building is off limits to without a work order designating specific times of work and a mandatory Peacekeeper escort to ensure that I stick to the order. I choose to sneak through back hallways I know only from repetitive poring over the layout.

"Good to see you inside, Kip." Captain Volente Covas' voice stops me short and I turn to see that I have just walked past his office, its maw of a door gaping open. Covas is ensconced behind his paperwork-laden desk, eyes to the grind stone. Did he see me in his peripheral vision? Covas has very good vision.

I step barely inside, nervously. Unlit candles adorn the shelves, as if the Peacekeepers would ever be denied power. The paint on the walls could use a thorough cleaning and repainting, a sickly brownish gray. I must have hesitated for a second because Covas' gruff voice calls out again, "Kip, how're things?"

"Alright, Vol... I guess." A plain lie. Life is a lie in Panem. We each wear it like an overcoat that's too snug, except we smile and pretend it's a perfect fit.

Covas at last sets down his pen and gazes at me, his robust frame leaning against the armrest of his chair. He has a nose bent from some long-ago break; Peacekeeping with violence sometimes draws backlash. His dark brown hair has faded to silver streaks here and there and crow's feet pinch beside his shrewd eyes.

"Good to see you inside for a change. It'll be getting cold soon." I spent recent months analyzing the exterior of the Peacekeeper's Office. It wasn't the warm weather that encouraged me to finish my exterior analysis. It was a coercive desire to stay out of this wretched, polished interior as long as possible.

My shoulders shrug rigidly. "Yeah, change is nice."

Covas nods thoughtfully, as though he understands what I mean. This is the part we all have to play, even the Capitol's dutiful engineer. Covas slightly arches his bushy eyebrows with almost genuine compassion. "How's your wife? She doing alright?"

You've torn her life apart! I want to blurt out. Since birth we are raised to be careful in what we say. A simple loose tongue in District 11 can bring down hard punishment and even vigilante repercussion from the Peacekeepers.

Thoughts race uncontrollably through my mind. You should have investigated more, talked to the people who watched my son fall, should have at least been honest about the whole tragedy, the murder. My better sense wins out and I decide to play the sympathy card since he's already offered it to me. "She's... Well, you know there's no... easiness, anymore. It's still hard. It probably always will be." I notice my fingers nervously fidgeting with the bulky, metal flashlight. I will them to stop.

Covas leans his elbow on the armrest and his hand against his cheek. He takes his time to reply, staring at me unblinking, and trying to see through my words. "Mason was a good kid."

My ears burn and I know my eyes are glaring at him. There's nothing I can do to stop my reaction. Covas was drawing me out. He had probably never heard of my son before he arrived at the scene as the principle detective assigned to investigate the case, the case he summarily closed upon discovering a Peacekeeper was the logical suspect. Covas declared the fall an accident only a few hours after personally dragging me away from the stone staircase. His only redeeming quality was that his firm hand had left me with a just few fleeting images of my son's broken body upon the Justice Building's granite stairs. Covas may have seen my son alive a few times. He never talked to him at all, or to me before the "accident".

Concern washes over me. Subconsciously, my mind urges me to explode, to vent my feelings honestly, grasping for the emotional satisfaction that I can convince myself such a release would bring. Instead, I look away from Covas and close my eyes, focusing all my effort on regulating my breathing until I can manage a few curt words. "Yes. Yes, he was."

Covas got the rise out of me that he was looking for so he changes the subject. "Listen, Kip. We should have dinner sometime. It might be nice to get to know you a little better."

Definitely prying. My eyes settle on the older man as I shrug. "Why not? Could learn something, right?"

"You never know what you might learn. Bring the wife too, why don't you? It's good to see you." Covas leans forward to his paper work, his eyes cemented on me.

"You to, Vol." Months ago he insisted I call him Vol, saying that even the junior Peacekeepers get away with it once in a while. Just sounds like a field rat to me, which frankly, suits Volente Covas just fine.

Hustling away from the Captain's office, I grit my teeth to regain my composure. As I round a corner to a wide stairwell, a large group of Peacekeepers approach from another direction. The timing couldn't be worse. If Covas hadn't bothered me I would have been long gone by this time. They curve into the stairwell, also. There's barely enough room for the whole pack to ascend as one mass, yet right in the middle of the pack is Jura Penrose.

Someone had pointed him out to me once, one of the witnesses who privately swore that she saw Penrose push Mason from the scaffold, sixty feet up. Mason didn't slip at all. He had worked on scaffold for a decade and never once fell.

Two people who were in the plaza at the time it happened told me what they saw; thinking similar testimony to Covas would be part of the official investigation. Mason was working near the top of the scaffold when he turned to the plaza and waved to someone far below. Jura Penrose, contempt on his face, leaned out a window and bumped Mason's calves with his side. Before Penrose stood up on the scaffold Mason had plunged halfway down.

Penrose doesn't notice me like the rest of the Peacekeepers. The current of bodies propels me up the stairs, ever nearer to my son's murderer. Suddenly panicked, I shoulder my way through the bunch to the edge of the staircase and lean against the railing as the young enlistees pass. The stifling atmosphere draws my breath short with a claustrophobia I almost never experience.

A Peacekeeper near the back glances quizzically. I point down the staircase. "I lost my way." The kid rolls his eyes and continues up the stairs. Yes, the structural engineer can't figure out where he's going. "Genius cover, Kip," I mutter, shaking my head.

After a minute of waiting, I resume my hike up the stairs. Working here, surrounded by Peacekeepers who despise District 11, might not be that much better than working in the Justice Building. At the top of the stairs, a narrow door provides access to another small set of stairs through which I access the crawlspace above the top floor. I'm halfway up those stairs before the feeling of claustrophobia vacates my skeleton.

Dust pervades the stale air since ventilation in this buffer zone was never considered necessary, nor lighting. I click on the flashlight and swing the beam around the vast space to make sure I remember it correctly. It's really not a crawlspace at all. That's just the proper term. I can stand fully upright with a dozen feet to spare and walk along steel girders which are covered with wide walkway boards.

With the complete absence of walls, the pace is quick and in moments I'm at the massive steel hub that is supported by the twelve columns, massive stone cylinders stalagmiting up from the sublevel basement. Sliding just a few boards aside gives me a good view to examine the hub's joint with one of the pillars. Deep red rust absorbs the milky blue pallor from the flashlight and lower than that, the faux granite glued on to the base of the steel hub is covered with settled grit.

As far as I can see, some grinding and rust-sealing paint may be all that's necessary. Also some dusting, except that's not a job for an engineer. Visual inspections on something this massive are mostly a waste. If time or stress damage from the Dark Days had taken any sort of real toll on such a main support for the building, it probably would entirely fail. It would certainly implode much more quickly than a routine inspection would catch, much less have an opportunity to do anything about impending catastrophe.

If the hub were to be found deficient or failing, the Main Office would certainly be evacuated and the men would be bunked into other buildings such as my house. The residents of Three Corners would all be thrown out into the streets without recompense. And even with an empty building, I don't have the equipment or logistical manpower to repair or replace something like this. Many girders and beams can't be replaced by one person with the equipment I have been granted. A large team would have to be dispatched from the Capitol to refit a new hub, taking probably months to organize and months more to complete.

Everyone, not just the Capitol's toady Peacekeeper force, everyone would be infuriated with me. Scipio is right. Things are precarious as can be. I'm not the only one on the edge of an abyss.


	2. Chapter 2

2

I can't help but fidget with Katniss' hand-me-down clothes. The lousy fit is frustrating, even for a pretty blouse and skirt, very much unlike my normal clothes. Mom is helping Katniss braid her dark brown hair into a sleek bun. My sister just stares into the mirror, her features chiseled into a dark confidence.

The name, Katniss, comes from a water plant. I'm named after flowers, Primrose. She's always very serious. I don't remember when she stopped being a big sister and started becoming a grown-up. Her face has been toning into the smooth edges of a woman and her olive skin had lost the childish splotches of pink that blush in my own cheeks.

"You look beautiful," I whisper, hushed by her image.

"And nothing like myself," Katniss replies as she turns to hug me. Here and now my dread melts away in her arms. I know that everything will be ok, in the way that my sister's strength nourishes me. In four years, when I'm sixteen, I'll be beautiful too, though differently. I have my mother's fairer skin and blonde hair, except I have the same elegant face that our father gave Katniss too. Sometimes I think he gave me his laugh. Katniss doesn't laugh very much.

My sister unwraps her arms from me. That serene feeling wells up, lingering inside my belly. Something flashes through her eyes. She's worried about me, but it's gone in an instant, hidden behind her mask of will. "Tuck your tail in, little duck." She reaches past my shoulders and tugs on the oversized blouse that she once wore.

I can't resist being silly as I laugh, "Quack."

She chuckles back and replies "Quack yourself. Come on, let's eat." She kisses my hair and we walk out of the tiny bedroom into the only other room in the Everdeen home where the kitchen and dining table are crowded around a fireplace and a couch. Everything is crammed together in this tiny house. Cozy, my father used to say.

Mom already has the table set: a few chunks of mushy bread and some milk from my goat, Lady. Even though the milk is good, I don't manage to eat much of the bread. The reaping has kept me petrified in terror these past two weeks. Already the calming affect of my sister's confidence has waned. My dread for the unthinkable rushes back howling. I nearly spill a glass of milk. No one _ever_ spills in District 12.

I didn't take out any tesserae this year. Katniss wouldn't let me. She had already used plenty of tesserae each year. So, there was only one little slip of paper with my name on it, in a globe full of thousands of little slips of paper with kid's names. I'm twelve and my name will be entered an additional time each year until I turn nineteen. Since Katniss took out tesserae each year, her name is entered more times in exchange for grain and other supplies.

The Hunger Games are just something you grow up with and District 12 is no different. Almost eighty years ago, the districts tried to overthrow the Capitol and in response, the Capitol devastated the rebellion, even wiping out District 13 entirely. The Capitol drew up the Treaty of Treason which set in stone the annual Hunger Games and the rules that dictate how they are to be run.

Every year, from each of the Districts, a boy and a girl between he ages of twelve and eighteen are selected at random, in the reaping, and sent to the Capitol. After a few days of training and hype over the whole event, the twenty-four kids are put into a massive outdoor arena where they have to fight to the death. The last child standing is returned home, made rich.

The Capitol thinks of victors as heroes. We just think of them as lucky survivors. Worst of all, the whole thing is broadcast as a sport, and we're required to pretend we enjoy it, are happy to participate in the reapings, even; like we see it as a chance for greatness.

Mom and I work in an apothecary shop. I have seen what it looks like up close when people are really hurt. Most of the people in District 12 live in the Seam, which is a slum, mostly of coal miners. They come to my mother when they are injured because they can't afford to pay the doctor who works on the business class.

In the stress of the moment, their wounds don't faze me because I have to stay alert to help wherever I can. Sometimes though, a nightmare will scare me and I have to crawl into Mom's bed. Katniss understands, at least she doesn't say anything about it. Maybe she would still want to be near Mom too if Mom hadn't been so bitten by despair after Dad died from an explosion in the mine, five years ago.

Katniss has been very independent since then. My sister became a hunter, remembering what Dad had taught her in the forests. She even tried to teach me once, but I didn't handle it really well. The fence is supposed to be electrified for a reason! People aren't supposed to go out because there are wild animals out there that can attack.

I really didn't like it when Katniss shot the animals too, and it was clear I could never do that. My sister doesn't care for animals except for the food they can provide. I had to beg her to keep her from drowning my cat, Buttercup and she didn't even have to worry about feeding him. Cats can feed themselves, mostly. I adore Katniss for her will and her strength; even though they sometimes overtake her heart.

She loves me and tolerates our mother. I manage to get more affection out of her than anyone, except maybe Gale. Gale is her hunting partner and whenever she's in the woods, he's probably there too. He's two years older than Katniss and doesn't have his dad anymore either, a victim of the same mine explosion, five years ago. I don't really know whether Gale and Katniss are affectionate. They seem comfortable with each other. If they have a deeper relationship, they keep it private, outside of the fence.

Lunch ends. I can't tell whether the lead weight in my stomach is anxiety or if it's because I didn't eat much. The walk to the wealthier business section of District 12 is short because our house is on the edge of the Seam. As we make our way through the maze of streets, I take in the decorated sights, trying to smother my concerns in the splendor of this fancied-up side of town.

Each shop front is decorated with all sorts of banners and bunting. Some of the freshly pruned trees that line the streets have ribbons tied to a few branches. Our destination is the town square, right out in front of the towering columns of the Justice Building. Several tables and chairs have been placed on a makeshift stage where lights blaze illuminating the scene for cameras which will transmit the whole event to the rest of Panem.

One of the tables glistens in the light. Two glass bowls full of tiny slivers of paper rest on the table spread; one globe for boys and one for girls. Somewhere in the mix, my name is scrawled, a single, tiny entry among thousands. My chest shivers with anxiety.

Katniss moves forward to where sixteen-year-olds stand. Mom gives me a little hug and whispers, "Be brave, sweetie. It'll be ok." She directs me to the back of roped off section, where the twelve-year-olds are huddled, like frightened lambs.

I know some of them from school, even see a few friends in the throng, but none of us talk. The whole square is timidly absent of voices. Here and there rise hushed whispers; the only other sound is that of arriving feet, rumbling through the pavement. It's all we reaping newcomers can do to remain standing. I tell my knees to calm down and quit shaking if only to ensure that I won't faint from terror. They don't listen.

Mayor Undersee takes the stage with Effie Trinket and the pair sits down. Effie is from the Capitol, their representative to help the selected tributes from District 12 arrive at all the proper events before the Games commence. Her hair is a pinkly freakish mop that _has_ to be a wig. I sense a nervous laugh rising in my belly. Effie just looks so ridiculous, especially next to Mayor Undersee who is a tall man with almost no hair, like he grew right up through his scalp.

Two chimes ring out from a massive clock mounted inside a statue across the square. Immediately, the hush dies to silence as all eyes turn to stage. The Mayor steps to the podium and clears his throat. He starts in on a short history lesson of the fall of the old world, rife with disasters and cataclysms both natural and man-caused. He lists off event after event of the distant past. The same old stuff we get every year in Panem History.

Some of the other kids are dressed up in their nice clothes, of course some are lucky to have the stress-worn rags they are wearing. Some of the older ones almost look bored, not many though. Gale's tall frame at the front of the pack stands out. He doesn't look scared, more irate.

Mayor Undersee finishes and I realize my fingers are fidgeting again. I force my hands to my waist, smoothing the blouse until my palms and wrists fossilize rigidly at my sides. It's silly of me, to be suddenly preoccupied with my appearance. No one is paying attention to me, anyway.

Effie Trinket hops up to the podium and chitters, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" It's either Effie's Capitol accent or her eccentricity which always pushes her to heavily emphasize the word 'ever'. It occurs to me that, one way or another, at least one of us kids is going to die within a few weeks. There's no escaping that fact. How can that possibly be in anyone's favor? Effie is talking up the District and the Games so much; I can't help thinking that this dread in my stomach isn't only fear. It's disgust too.

Effie moves over to the clear globes, their polished glass surfaces luminous in the afternoon sun and television lights. Without any hesitation, her hand dives into the tangle of folded papers and draws one out, her eyes never leaving the camera, broad grin molded over her cheeks. In a second she's back at the microphone and unfolding the paper. I mean to take a breath and make a wish one more time but ever chipper, Effie eagerly reads out the name. "Primrose Everdeen!"

All the breath saps out from my lungs, suffocating me! I try to inhale but my chalky throat tightens, incapacitated. My heartbeat is pounding in my ears and I feel my knees begin to buckle. At the last second, I brace my composure and force air down into my chest. I've been selected. I'm supposed to go to the stage now, so the Capitol can see who was picked as the girl tribute from District 12.

Once I'm past the rope, my first few steps are shaky, though I manage to tighten the muscles in my legs, force them to take another off-balance step. One after another my jerky gait carries me past the other kids, almost to the stage now.

"Prim!" My sister's panicked voice cries out behind me. I whimper inside with each step, while I resist stopping. I have been selected. I'm going to the Hunger Games. I'm going to die… Red edges pierce at my vision and compress like I'm looking through tiny holes in the winter blanket back home. "Prim!" Katniss cries out again. I'm already at the steps.

Just as I'm picking up my leg to take the first stair, I'm grabbed from behind. Katniss shoves me behind her, yelling savagely, "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" She squeezes my upper arm in her hand as she closes the other behind herself as if to hide me. The shock thickens the spots in my eyesight. I still can't believe I've been selected, but I've been volunteered for, now. That almost never happens in District 12. It hasn't happened since I can remember.

Effie Trinket replies, still maddeningly grinning. "Lovely! But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then… we..." At long last Effie is reduced to mumbling, questioning whether she recalls District 12's selection procedures. Mayor Undersee waves her off and asks Katniss to come onto the stage. My big sister lets go of me, starts up the stairs.

She can't leave! I can't lose her! "No, Katniss! No! You can't go!" My tiny voice screeches as I grab her arm again.

"Prim, let go!" she growls back. I'm already hugging her around her waist, my screaming shrivels to tears. "Let go!" She untangles my arms from her front as strong hands pull me backward. I twist my balance, trying to break the solid grip, pain springing along my left elbow. I catch a glimpse of Gale trying to reel me in.

His strength easily wins out. Gale lifts me off the ground, deftly tucking my small frame against his chest, even though I'm still struggling and bawling. Gale tilts his head toward the stairs, "Up you go, Catnip." His voice quivers and in my melee, I don't know if it's because I'm flailing against his stomach or because he's as distraught as I am.

Gale turns and carries me back up the aisle. My face streaks with tears, blonde hair sticking to my whimpering cheeks. Katniss is taking my place in the reaping! I quit protesting while Gale sets me down beside my mother. Her own eyes glitter wetly. We hug and cry, begging this day is a dream, a nightmare making more miserable the day of the reaping, but the horror continues when I look up, through Mom's fingers dragging strands of my hair away from my eyes, Effie Trinket tells Katniss to introduce herself.

"Katniss Everdeen." Her eyebrows scrunch together, lips angled slightly with displeasure.

Effie continues, "I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round applause to our newest tribute!" She waves her hands excitedly. Suddenly, she's not merely eccentric. I loathe Effie Trinket!

How can she possibly celebrate this? My family, barely able to recover from my father's accidental death is now being torn apart! Effie Trinket thinks this is honorable? I nearly vomit the little milk and bits of bread of lunch an hour earlier.

Everyone must be thinking the same thing. No one in the square makes a sound, so appalled by this spectacle that annually afflicts us. Instead, everyone salutes Katniss with District 12's aged tradition of raising three fingers to the mouth and then offering them forward. My arms are wrapped around Mom's waist but I yank my right hand free to join in the sentiment which has always meant as a farewell to a dear person. No one is dearer to me than Katniss.

Haymitch Abernathy cuts off the soul of the moment, stumbling onto the stage in a drunken stupor, warbling something about Katniss, words all blended together. He turns toward the cameras ranting a few more slurred, half-shouted lines before stumbling off the edge of the stage.

My stomach squirms more than ever, reacting to Katniss' beautifully distressed form, calmly awaiting the Hunger Games. She crosses her arms behind her back and tilts her head up, looking over the crowd and even the buildings. Her eyebrows slide back a bit, fading the grimace nearly into a vague smile. She's beautiful again, glowing in the lights like I've never seen before.

Once some men cart away a passed-out Haymitch, Effie Trinket continues the events, her hands constantly touching the pink wig that's out of place on her head. She bursts out more statements, but I'm not listening anymore, keeping my focus on Katniss. My right hand wraps back around Mom's midriff and she squeezes my shoulder.

Then the boy tribute is walking onto stage and I recognize him too. It's the baker's youngest son who is the same age as Katniss. Peeta Mellark has pale blonde hair cut a few inches down his forehead and a fit, robust chest.

Effie puts out an offer for volunteers and as expected, no one accepts. The tributes for District 12 in this year's Hunger Games are selected and there's no turning back for either of them.

Mayor Undersee retakes the podium and begins reading the Treaty of Treason, word for word. I never paid that much attention to the Treaty in the past and now it seems really important that I should listen to what it says. Yet, even straining my ears to listen, I'm not catching any of the reading, at all. It's all jumbled up. My mind simply refuses to acknowledge what's being said. I can hear words but they're muddy and confused.

I can't think of anything except Katniss: the panic of her voice when she volunteered, scorn on her face when she announced her name, even faint recognition of Peeta as he approached the stage. I sell some of Lady's goat milk to the baker and I know that Katniss and Gale do some trading with him when they can. I've never seen either of them talking to Peeta before. Maybe she was just glad Gale wasn't selected. Only one person can leave the arena as a victor and I know Katniss and Gale could never harm each other.

I'm lost in thought and the warmth of my mother's presence when the mayor finishes reading the Treaty. Peeta and Katniss shake hands and face the crowd again while the national anthem of Panem rolls its disquieting notes over the speakers.

After the ceremony wraps up and the crowd is dispersing, several Peacekeepers whisk Peeta and Katniss off the stage and into the Justice Building. Mom, Gale, and I linger, working our way against the current of the crowd, toward the main entrance. Peacekeepers are milling about, discussing with each other the odds against this year's District 12's tributes. Haymitch is the only living Hunger Games victor from our coal mining district and there was only one other, before him.

At Gale's questioning, a Peacekeeper jerks a thumb toward the huge double doors. Gale shoulders one open and leads us inside a huge entryway lined with brass that could use serious polishing. The floor is a pattern of waxed tile and the walls look like granite. I've been in here before, I sense, even though I can't remember when or why. There's no sign of Katniss. Here and there other Peacekeepers and District officials huddle about speaking in hushed tones. Some syllables echo off the high stone ceiling.

Madge Undersee, the mayor's daughter sees us and stands up from a bench she's sitting on. She walks over to us, white dress fluttering gracefully. She nearly whispers, "They'll let you see her in a minute." Looking over the room for a moment, she then leans close to me and Mom, "I'm really sorry." Madge is in the same class as Katniss at school and sometimes comes to our house in the Seam. She's very quiet and shy but also very nice. Her compassion is a kind gesture, although that's all it could ever be. The weight in my stomach settles more heavily as reality coagulates in my thoughts.

"Thank you, dear." Mom whispers back in quivering voice. She gives my shoulder another squeeze as we follow Madge into a hallway which intersects across the back of the lobby. Off to the right, I can see Mr. Mellark, the baker, and his family talking to Mayor Undersee. Madge leads us in the other direction.

Gale leans so he can speak privately to me. He's very tall. "How are you doing, kiddo?"

I almost say fine, right away, out of habit. He's asking for a real answer, not just the things we grow up saying, never really giving it much thought. "I... I'm scared, Gale. And sad." We come to a stop outside a door with two Peacekeeper guards. "Mostly sad."

Gale nods, "Me too." He pauses before adding. "Your sister is very brave." Genuine pain shows through his usually unreadable exterior.

Mom asks that we be permitted in. The guards deny her request and tell us to wait. She's about to protest when a voice calls out behind us. "Mrs. Everdeen?" It's the mayor, forehead shining under the hallway lights. He shakes all of our hands, even mine, before continuing. "I know this isn't what you would like to be doing with this time, but I wanted to catch you as soon as I could. It's a tradition in District 12 that the tribute's families have dinner with the mayor and I would be greatly honored if you would care to join my family tomorrow."

Mom hesitates at first before accepting. Mayor Undersee turns to Gale. "And Mr..."

"Hawthorne," Gale provides his name dryly.

"Yes, I'm sorry. Mr. Hawthorne, I understand you are very good friends with Katniss. You are more then welcome to attend, as well."

Gale shrugs in reply. "I might be busy, but we'll see."

The mayor nods, a smile bending across his jaws. He must be used to snide comments from Seam-dwellers because he isn't put off one bit. "Marvelous. Well, I do wish you good hope and the best of luck to Katniss." Undersee turns to the guards. "Let them go in, now." Then he wheels about and walks back up the hallway. Madge stares distantly after her father. I couldn't tell whether the mayor cares about Katniss or not. Maybe it would be hard to choose which stranger to like, the boy or girl tribute, knowing that only one will return, if one at all.

A Peacekeeper grips the brass door handle in a gloved hand. "You want to go in all at once?"

Madge shakes her head and Gale also steps back. "I want to go in, just myself, if it's alright with you."

Mom nods and the guards let her and me go into the room. Katniss is sitting on a crimson velvet couch brushing her fingers over the expensive, luxurious fabric. Before I can restrain myself, I climb into her lap and hug her neck. She holds me, the way I hold Buttercup. Mom hugs around the pair of us and I lay my head against Katniss' shoulder, wanting to never let her warmth leave my embrace.

Too soon Katniss starts listing things we have to do, since she won't be around. The idea of not having a sister is alien to me and her instructions seem like plans in case the worst happens, the sort of plans you make knowing it could never really be that bad. Except, it is...

It's all the stuff we already do. 'Prim, sell your milk and cheese.' and 'Mother, keep the apothecary shop going.' She says Gale will continue giving us some of the food he gathers and that we should give him some of the supplies we can get ourselves in return.

Then she turns to Mom, voice rising in tension. She scolds our mother that she can't shut down again. I don't like to think about it because I love how close I am to our mother, but Katniss is extremely wary of her.

After our father died, Mom was so distraught that she couldn't function at all and Katniss, at only eleven, a year younger than I am now, had to start foraging for berries and fruit in the woods. Dad had taught her to make bows and traps when he used to take her outside of the fence and if it weren't for Katniss, we would have starved to death for sure. Eventually Mom recovered from her grief, but Katniss hasn't trusted her since and remained the primary provider for us.

She's yelling at mom now, "You can't clock out and leave Prim on her own. There's no me to keep you both alive. It doesn't matter what happens. Whatever you see on the screen. You have to promise me you'll fight through it!"

Mom stands up off the couch, angry that Katniss still doesn't trust her, "I was ill. I could have treated myself if I'd had the medicine I have now."

"Then take it! And take care of her!" Katniss snaps back.

I lean back in my sister's lap to look her in the eyes. I want to show her that things will be ok so she doesn't have to worry about us so she can focus on surviving the Games. "I'll be all right, Katniss." My hands cup against her beautifully tanned cheeks, working up my sincerest tone. "But you have to take care, too. You're so fast and brave! Maybe you can win!"

It's not that I believe she can win. I haven't even seen what other tributes she will face. I know she's already good at surviving outdoors. The truth is I have to believe it. I can tell Katniss that I'll be alright even with her gone, but deep down I know that's not true. A fresher, sharper sort of terror is stewing inside, dwarfing the anxiety I felt before the reaping. I don't want Katniss to go at all. If she has to go, then I insist, she has to come back.

"Maybe," she replies, trying to calm her frustration. "Then we'd be as rich as Haymitch."

"I don't care if we're rich. I just want you to come home." My voice breaks with the pleading. "You will try, won't you? Really, really try?"

Katniss brushes a light strand of hair behind my ear and gazes into my eyes. "Really, really try. I swear it."

The door creaks open and the Peacekeeper is waving for us to leave the room. Katniss squeezes one last hug into me before I stand back up. "I love you both." She calls as we're leaving.

My voice refuses to cooperate and when I say it back, my words are choked with more tears. Too soon, Mom and I are back in the hallway, door closed, awaiting the next visitor. Gale and Madge are no longer there. Mom and I don't know what to do so we stand around, wishing, hoping the Hunger Games will be cancelled this year. They have never been delayed for a day. What else is there?

Then Peeta Mellark's father quietly heads into the room. Maybe he and Katniss and Gale know each other better than I realized. I'll ask Gale about it sometime. He comes back out in a few minutes and nods to me. I wave my hand back, feeling hypnotically detached from the gesture. The baker and I are on good terms. He's like an uncle to me, sort of, although his wife I can do without. He buys cheese and milk as much as the rest of my sales combined. The bakery makes good use out of it.

Madge Undersee walks back up the hallway, coming from deeper inside the Justice Building. She shakes her head for a moment as if to clear it and then glances quizzically between the door and us. Mom says, "Go on in, Madge. It's your turn."

She's only in the room for a minute, maybe two. Gale paces down the hallway toward us. "Where did you go?" I ask.

"Just had to take a walk." He stares at the door as Madge exits and walks past us. "I guess this is my time, then." Gale sighs and brushes his hands over his button down shirt, nervously. I've never seen him this animated before. He takes a deep breath and sighs again, stepping up to the door.

After he's been inside for a few minutes when Mom turns to me, "You ok, sweetie?"

I look at the marble floor dejectedly. Mom knows I'm not ok and she's not ok either. She's asking if we should stay longer, whether it matters to be in this foreign building. I shake my head, no. If we stay, will they let us go with the tributes in the car to the train station? I doubt it.

The Peacekeepers go into the room to retrieve Gale, who wants to stay for a few more minutes. Soon they're pulling him out as he struggles to tell Katniss something. "You know I won't! Katniss, remember I-" The Peacekeepers slam the door shut. "love you!" They shove Gale away from the door. Furious, he is a hair's breadth away from attacking these armed guards. Gale's smarter than that and thinks better of that rash option.

The three of us walk down the hallway slowly and soon finding ourselves back out in the empty square, under the intense afternoon sun. The stage is already halfway disassembled, split into pieces that won't be brought out again till next year's Hunger Games, where I'll have another chance to be selected and will have no sister to volunteer for me.


	3. Chapter 3

3

The screen switches away from District 12 and a short documentary plays reviewing some of the Hunger Games' 'historic victors and battles.' District 12's entire selection process only lasted about twenty minutes. It was more dramatic than usual, what with the intoxicated guy and the girl volunteering for her sister. You don't see that very often in the Games. Volunteering to spare someone the indignity and brutality of being slaughtered on television is a bit of an affront to the Capitol.

The Gamemakers only permit volunteering because it makes for better entertainment, so far as the Capitol's audiences are concerned. Most of the volunteering takes place in the more wealthy districts where kids volunteer, not to save others, but because in those districts it's considered an honor to have a chance to win the games. Everyone calls those kids the 'Career' tributes, like murder is some sort of day job. I suppose in the Capitol, murder can be considered an occupation.

Of course, the Capitol's children are spared from this whole charade. Throughout the time I spent there, few of the people I ran into had any concept of the district residents as human. Capitol citizens almost universally regard the Hunger Games as the greatest viewing pleasure ever created. Not even as a weapon to set the Districts against each other. That's all the Treaty of Treason was and it's plain to hear in the reading. The tesserae system isn't even disguised. It is obviously a tool to seed division and distrust between the wealthier and the poorer peoples throughout Panem.

The broadcasts are live each year, because the crowds in the Capitol just eat up the 'realism' of forcing starved children into acts of pure, cruel violence. So long as it's 'real' from a distance. Maybe if the Capitol sent its own tributes they would see, it's not realism; it's plain evil. Only a depraved mind could delight in the bloody competition of children for mere survival. Yet, the Capitol is overflowing with depravity.

I can't watch any more of this terror circus. My fingers paw the shut off switch on the television. Meyla mutters under her breath. I know what she's thinking.

My wife stands and stretches her legs for a second. She's more stunning than usual, dressed up for today's reaping. Our's follows 12. The event is scheduled to start in twenty minutes. Each district will proceed after the previous, the rest of the day, until District 1.

"Shall we go?" Meyla asks.

"Yeah, just let me check the chargers." The kitchen is only a few steps away.

All my batteries are plugged in and charging away, taking full advantage of those precious hours today when the electricity will light up Three Corners. I grab a hat on the way out the door to keep the sun out of my eyes.

Every sidewalk overflows with people from the rural apartment complexes elsewhere in District 11; daily field workers who can't afford to do much except labor and collapse from exhaustion each night in stuffy one- or two-room apartments. My sister's family is among these groups flooding into town to attend the annual reaping.

I take my wife's arm to keep us together. We manage to weave along several alleys and navigate past street corners until we push into the crowd at the main plaza.

It's already packed with maybe three thousand people on the ground, on balconies, down side streets, even on rooftops; the ones without camera crews. The Hunger Games are to be treated as well-loved events and everyone is obligated to show up. Not showing up can put you on the dissident list the Peacekeepers are rumored to maintain. Such a rumor might be true. Nobody risks that it's not.

Meyla and I scan the crowd to catch a glimpse of my younger sister Hannah. There are so many faces it's nearly impossible to pick out anyone we recognize. Then I think to look for kids on their dad's shoulders since Marek always has one of the little ones up there. After ruling out half a dozen, Meyla picks out Marek with three-year-old Wren perched. She points them out as we start the arduous process of excusing our way through clusters of people, constantly realigning our direction, until at last, I can greet my family and give Hannah a careful hug.

Breck, the one-year-old is sleeping in Hannah's arms and she hugs back with one hand and then hugs Meyla. I pat Marek on the back.

"Good to see you, Kip." He nods my way.

"Yeah, you too." I look around inventorying the three kids whose ages escape my grizzled mind. It's confusing, since the Amaranths have six kids. That's a lot of birthdays to remember. Lilja is older than Chish who is older than Sythia. I just know only Rue is old enough to be in the reaping. That's why she's not here. She's closer to the front of the plaza with the other twelve-year-old kids.

Chish, the oldest boy, looks up at me. "Hi, Uncle Kippen!" He waves, drawing a grin across my lips despite the atmosphere.

"Hiya, Chish." What is he? Seven now? He reaches his arms up so he can join his sister in sitting on shoulders. "I don't know if I can pick you up, with how big a boy you're getting," I joke. Chish giggles as I feign great effort while lifting him the first time. The second time, I hoist Chish up fully and set him on my shoulders. I wasn't far off actually. The boy is a lot heavier than I remember. Life keeps moving on and the kids are growing.

District 12 was 7,300 some odd people strong when I last read a census result several years back. It seems to have grown, judging by the number of kids in the running. But they still don't hold a power-outage candle to District 11. More than a thousand kids are in the square and at least eight hundred of them are entered in the drawing. Most of the children have more than ten accumulated entries within their first two years, because District 11's tesserae usage is necessarily absolute. Eleven's poverty is awful, perhaps worse than the rest of Panem. Of course, that sort of information is never publicly available.

We can't use glass bowls to run our selection either. We have to use huge tubs and we don't do it with a simple hand drawing. First, there's the customary history lesson that no one listens to anymore. Repetition for retention, I suppose. Then the selection process begins.

A clear lid is placed on the clear plastic tub of girl's entries and air is pumped through some tubes so the thousands of little papers flitter about, stirring and mixing. Then a sliding door on the inside of the lid is pulled aside when an attendant arms the mechanism. A spring system will slam the door shut as soon as the first sliver of paper peeks through the tiny opening and that paper with its name will be snagged in the trap, very literally.

We have to watch all this on the big television screens because it's too far away to see very well. The trap snaps shut and Aldus Post, our Hunger Games representative from the Capitol reaches in a pale, manicured hand and withdraws the paper, which is specially folded so the entries won't clump together in the pneumatic jumbling process.

Aldus reads the name into the microphone with all too revolting verve and my heart nearly stops. The first two female tributes selected this year were both twelve years old, but no matter how sweet Rue Amaranth truly is, no one is going to volunteer for my niece.

Hannah is crying and hugging Rue. Marek hasn't spoken since I caught his back when he almost collapsed in the plaza; Chish had the good presence of mind to help keep Wren from tumbling off her father's shoulders. Hannah's kids are very intelligent. They probably test better than I did when I was inducted into the university The only education provided in the districts is selective and mediocre, usually pertaining to the principle occupation of each district, agriculture in Eleven.

Hannah's kids excel in whatever they can learn and Rue is the smartest of my nieces and nephews. Her long dark hair sticks out over Hannah's arm as she hugs her mother. She doesn't cry, though. Her creamy brown skin is unmarred by the events. She just lets her parents weep. I wonder if maybe Rue doesn't want them to see her crying as she leaves. Probably the leaving is as bad as it can get. How can you say goodbye to your child? Goodbye, forever... If I had known, what would I have said to Mason? What could I have said?

Marek holds Hannah with one arm and runs his hand gently through Rue's hair. Lilja, Chish, and Sythia are on a couch together barely able to understand what's happening. Lilja holds little Sythia. Breck sits on my knee gurgling through the words babies speak that aren't quite intelligible yet. Wren is in Meyla's lap, counting my wife's fingers.

Hannah finally loosens up on Rue and Marek kneels down to embrace her, picking her up as he kisses her little head. I peek at my wife, wishing for a different world. The tears in her eyes stab pain through my gut. How can this be? This isn't right! Is it not enough that we are the Capitol's slaves? We have to be their toys too?

There's no chance Rue can survive the Games. She can climb trees, flee, and hide better than anyone I've ever seen. Sooner or later though, the other tributes have to die for one to be victor. I ought to feel more sympathy for my sister's family, for my niece. I ought to feel sorrow and these emotions are welling up inside of me.

But they are nothing compared to the fury that is boiling. My arms are shaking with rage so bad that I have to lean Breck against my stomach so he doesn't fall off my knee. Meyla looses a hand from Wren's arithmetic and brushes her fingertips against my neck. Our affection has waned since the funeral, even though we still love each other. It's hard to feel one with someone else when the result of that equation is stolen away.

Marek finally speaks as he sets down Rue and kneels to look in her eyes, his voice raw with sorrow. "Sweetheart, we love you so much. Do you know how much?"

Rue nods slowly, her melodic voice replying, "As much as birds love to sing and as much as bells love to ring."

"As much as you can ever, ever dream," Marek touches his index finger to her nose, and Rue grins. Marek hugs her again.

Hannah sniffs and wipes her face with Marek' handkerchief. "We do love you, honey."

Squeezing her mother's hand, Rue keeps smiling, "I love you too, Mom." She's even more grown up than I remember. Her tiny stature can fool the eye. Rue's very mature, she doesn't seem worried about the Hunger Games at all, opting instead to bask in these last few moments with family and embrace every second's fleeting comfort. "And you too, Dad."

For months, Rue had become something of a third caregiver and provider in the Amaranth household. She was able to forage extra food for the kids and more than once, I had seen her sneaking her younger siblings little servings from her own plate. Here she is, adorable and generous and wise all at once.

A defiant sense of pride for my sister rises within me. I know Mason was a good son because everyone made sure to tell us after the fact. Mason even treated the Peacekeepers very respectfully; a thought that galls me even more. Still, I'm amazed at how Rue is handling her selection. She refuses misery, entirely! Simply will not accept discomfort since she can't change what is going to happen.

My rage subsides with my wife's calming touch and Rue's grace, and suddenly it hits me. She's rebelling. Rue can't do anything to stop the Games from sweeping her into oblivion, so she's refusing to give the Capitol the satisfaction of torturing her soul with agonized concern over her coming trials.

I also realize that this moment of respect for her passive acceptance will pass. My seething rage is still there. It has stewed for months, years actually, along with each gray hair I acquired as I begged fate not to steal my son in the annual reapings. I decide to take the lesson from Rue, if only for today and set aside the injustice of it all.

Wren squirms down from Meyla's lap and sputters to Hannah, "Why are you crying, mommy?" My sister picks the girl up and rocks her in motherly arms, whispering to her. Wren won't understand that Rue is going away. Wren doesn't yet know what 'not coming back' means.

My wife stands up and gives Rue a tender hug which she returns happily. "I'm going to miss you, Aunt Mey."

Finally, it's my turn, Marek picks up Breck and Rue sits on my knees to embrace me. But before she does she looks me square in the eye and her expression darkens for just a moment. "I'll be brave, Uncle Kip."

It's like she can see right through me, like she can read my mind and the bitterness in my heart! That can't be possible. She's just reading my expression wisely. "I know you will, Rue. We'll be brave for you too." I lean forward and hold Rue. Her hair smells of the rare chestnut shampoo my wife and I gave the Amaranth's a few months ago. I can feel Rue's ribs beneath her shirt, the bony structure in my hands of an underfed child.

After Rue spends a few minutes with her brothers and sisters, she gets to hold gurgling Breck, even singing him a lullaby in her sweet voice that many field workers adore. Too soon, the hour is up and the family has to leave. My thoughts are centered. Rue's eyes blaze into my own, the large brown irises overpowering through my consciousness and the rage I have hidden begins to seep through the walls of survival that have held back my darkest dreams.


	4. Chapter 4

4

That first night was really hard. Mom and I didn't touch the stew and didn't even remember to take it off the coals until it had partially burned. We didn't speak either after Gale left. I didn't know what to say. Nothing felt right.

When we finally went to bed, I found the coolness of the sheets distressing and I tossed and turned until finally resigning to Mom's bed where she held me until I fell asleep.

I didn't go to school the next morning, since you can get away with a day off if someone in your family goes to the Hunger Games. Only one though. I guess having crying kids and parents in public is supposed to be limited as much as possible. Still, you can recognize the families of the tributes by their dazed, empty expressions, the way they shuffle their feet instead of take full steps.

Maybe that's what I look like right now. My fingers curl through Lady's rough white fur, petting the goat around her spots. My eyes stare at her and I try work up the urge to milk. It's a much easier than some of the other chores like cleaning out her makeshift stall each day. It's as though my body is still asleep, just not accepting commands from my mind.

I close my eyes and sigh, feeling a pit of loneliness. Lady licks my face and I turn away a light grin breaking out. Ok, I can do this, I think. Once Lady is milked and a rope leash is tied around her neck, the two of us leave the stall and cross out of the Seam into a ratty Meadow. Usually, if there's any grass at all in the meadow that's beside our house, I let Lady eat from there, instead of making Katniss bring home extra food.

The wind howls its whispers at me in a breezy, deafening silence as Lady eats. I sit against a scraggly tree that's long since dead and tuck my knees up against my chest, wishing this emptiness would just leave me alone.

After Lady is back in her stall, I see to the other chores, checking the cheese from yesterday afternoon. It's sat a little too long and is drying too quickly. I cut it into sections and then tuck the whole wheel into a bag that has a shoulder strap; Mom stitched it together for my trading with businessmen.

Bringing the milk along, I make the normal rounds, this time before school is out. Only adults are on the streets, no kids at all. I finish making my trades early and decide to head home straight away. Something besides Katinss' going to the Games is bothering me.

Adults like to say that if you keep making a face, it'll stick and you'll always look that way. I don't know if Katniss always had a face that scowls but she usually looks angry. So, what bothers me is whether Katniss was scowling on stage because that's what her face does or whether it was something else.

The simple truth is chewing me up inside, overshadowing the hunger that every Seam-resident knows too well; Katniss wouldn't even be going to the Hunger Games if it weren't for me. She took out tesserae every year she could and had something like twenty entries this year. I had only one, and still it didn't matter! Were the twelve-year-olds the last entries to go in the pot and Effie Trinket had just grabbed one from the top of the pile?

That doesn't matter, really. What matters is that I'm the reason Katniss is gone, and I can already feel the weight of that truth sinking my heart. Was Katniss scowling because she was angry with me? I don't think so, probably not. At least if she was, she was over it by the time we got to see her last. Almost without warning, shame grabs my stomach, my face flushing hotly.

District 12's residents like me a lot because I'm 'adorable' and nice to people. They like Katniss too because she and Gale get lots of food on to the market and food matters a bit more than pleasant company. Some nights, it's all a girl can think about. I wonder if people are going to be angry with me. I know it's foolishness, but I drag Lady along, rushing home anyway, to hide my face from anyone who might recognize me. Probably everyone would, considering the big screens showing my fit and my sister's personal sacrifice.

Pretty much everyone I traded with today offered how sorry they are for Katniss and I didn't know what to say to any of them. Am I supposed to talk up my sister's talents when she's only in this mess because of me?

I lay down to hug a blanket for a long time. Buttercup snuggles up next to me, purring. I kiss the uneven fur on his head and rub my hands down his spine and for some reason, I feel a little better. My mind drags me through the memory of those precious minutes with Katniss.

She held me and said that she loved me. The only thing I can remember saying to her is that she has to win. What a stupid thing to say! Of course, Katniss was going to try to win. She's always done what it takes to survive and she would give it her best shot in the arena. What did my words mean to her, then? 'You have to win because we can't make it without you_._'

The moment sticks in my mind the way coal dust sticks to everything in the Seam. If only I could have a chance to do that over, I would take back those words and say something else, almost anything else. Maybe tell her how much she's meant to us all these years, except that would sound like I've already given up on her. Maybe just tell Katniss one more time that we love her.

It's the Capitol that is responsible. They treat everyone like dirt, like they can just throw people away and not give it a second thought! I'm not as much sad or ashamed anymore as angry. How many kids do they kill ever year in the Hunger Games? Twenty-three every year for 70-some-odd years? The ones that survive are so different, either insane or depressed from the horror of the ordeal.

I've been laying down, not napping for about an hour, but all this frustration is working up my energy. There are always chores to be done so I set back to them, cleaning the house and Lady's stall. School is out by now, the trading is done and usually I would go to the apothecary shop to help Mom.

Right as I decide to leave the house again, Mom comes through the door. "Hi, Prim. I had to close the shop early."

A bit more harshly than I intend to my voice bursts, "But Katniss told us to keep doing what we were doing!"

Mom's eyes squint with pain, "I know, but it's just for today, because we're going to the mayor's house tonight."

I had forgotten that. I bite my tongue, while regret bites me for snapping at Mom. It's not like me to snap. She's right, most dinners would be happening in an hour or so, a hair before sundown. District 12's residents are accustomed to eating around sunset since candlelight is quite expensive. We still have to clean up and walk all the way through the business district to get to the mayor's house.

I force my voice to assume its usual gentleness. "I'm sorry, Mom. I just..." My words trail off. I don't want to talk about it. My head already hurts from thinking about it.

"I know, Prim. I am too." My body slides into a chair as I try to will my mind to shut off. Mom comes over and strokes her fingers through my hair. "She loves you very much, honey. Things should be different but they aren't. Katniss gave you the gift she wanted to give you."

Mom means that the Capitol shouldn't be able to do these things to us kids and that Katniss took my place out of love, out of her instinct to protect and provide for me. With every competing emotion that has flooded my head to the point of a splitting headache, I can't help but let it churn onward, dragging my heart upon a sea of agonized guilt. My face flushes again, throat whimpering, beyond my control.

Mom hugs me around the back of the chair, "Why don't we get cleaned up, ok?"

We're going to Mayor Undersee's house for dinner and I've been crying. After the fit from last night, will the Peacekeepers accept with my refusal to accept this as I'm supposed to? I rub some water onto my cheeks to wash away the evidence. Who cares what they think of my grief, I wonder.

I put on my other skirt, a darker, brown one. The blouse is the same thing I wore last night because there're just no other nice clothes that fit me. Mom is radiant in her dress with the fading velvet collar. Even though she washed her face, her own telltale redness of sorrow is still evident. Maybe she closed the shop down because she couldn't handle the constant reminders of sympathy. It's still a bit early to be leaving, even with the half an hour of walking before we arrive.

Buttercup bats a lazy paw at a piece of string that I tease him with when a sudden knock thumps at the door. Mom opens it and Gale steps in, dressed in an outfit of his father's nice clothes, a button down and even a fancy belt. "Hello, Gale." Mom says.

"Hi, Mrs. Everdeen." Gale replies and glances at me and the cat.

"I thought you weren't going to come." My voice rushes my thoughts into words. "Well, I mean, it sounded like you weren't going to come."

Gale shrugged indifferently. "The more food I eat for free, the more I can leave for my family." I hadn't really even thought about the dinner. I was struggling to discern my emotions from my physical needs. It made sense.

Few in the Seam ever have dinner parties because no one who lives here can afford it. Every scrimp of supplies and scrap of food has to be rationed for consumption since there's simply never enough.

If someone comes over for dinner, almost always they pay Mom for the food they eat. Seam residents can't afford charity. Most can't even afford to maintain themselves. We Everdeens are a bit better off because Katniss and Gale have always been such excellent scavengers and hunters. They risk venturing under the fence almost every single day, at least they did. Gale probably will continue to do so. The Peacekeepers here don't mind, as long as the food keeps coming in. Even the Capitol's police buy on the black market.

This is so like Gale. It's like Katniss too. They do anything they have to for the few people they love. Anything! I was very lucky to be born into this family. Dad used to sing to us, and though I miss him and the music. I still have the wonderful memories of his affection and care. I don't remember feeling hollow when I was that young. Until today, nothing I had felt held this weight. He did everything he could for us too, even work long days, in a coal mine deep in underground. I think that's what Katniss got from Dad mostly, his sense of duty to care for us.

The walk takes half an hour, as expected and no one talks. Gale is clearly uncomfortable. He may be willing, but he doesn't like going to the mayor's. I can understand. Mayor Undersee is involved in the reaping every year and the general administration of Capitol's dictates. It doesn't matter though. If it wasn't him, it would be someone else and Mayor Undersee really isn't all that bad. Some people say so sometimes, when the air is warm and there's a little extra food at the markets.

Mayor Undersee's house looms enormous on the street. Two levels! I can't imagine what we would do with all the extra space that's packed behind those walls. Madge Undersee sleeps in her own room and has her own dresser and there's even a second bathroom! The mayor's house has more rooms than I have pairs of socks. Our feet thud dully through the stairs as we climb onto the Undersee's elevated porch.

Mom knocks on the door lightly and Mrs. Undersee answers it. I don't see her much because she's sick a lot and has to stay in bed. The kids at school like to gossip about it from time to time. Madge once told Katniss it's just headaches. Maybe that's why she doesn't look up as she invites us in.

The front hallway is lined with several simple bookshelves against a wall. The room to the left is nicer, with deep red carpet, a few couches, and wallpaper boasting exquisite printed patterns. There's a television as large as the ones they put up in the square for people during the reapings, although it's not on. Not for lack of power, since the electricity is flowing once more. The Mellark family is already sitting on the couches talking easily with Mayor Undersee. When the mayor notices us, he stands up to greet us, shaking our hands as he did last night. "Welcome! Welcome, please, have a seat!"

Mom, Gale, and I sit, unsure of what to say or how to act. The Mellark family sits across from us; the two boys, one a bit older than Gale and the other a bit younger, also dressed in nice clothes. Mr. Mellark is wearing a faded suit that doesn't match his tie. I can't look past Mrs. Mellark's stern glare.

Mrs. Mellark is always angry, and I can never understand why. Peeta's selection in the reaping is a good reason to be mad. Still, she's glowering at us like we're at fault somehow. It's unsettling. The Mayor doesn't seem to notice as he tries to work Gale into a conversation. Why would Mrs. Mellark be mad at us? Because we want Katniss to win the Games and not Peeta? That makes no sense. She should be mad at the Capitol, fuming at the mayor.

Madge enters, dressed almost plainly, the same style she dresses in for school. She tells her father, "It's ready."

For once, the Mayor seems relieved. His vague questions to Gale had been almost entirely ignored. We stand and Mayor Undersee invites everyone into a broad dining room. The tablecloth is covered with enough dishes and entrees to last for a month in my house. I decide it's not time to compare lives since the mayor is paying for this feast which is quite expensive, even by his Capitol-funded salary. A thought flashes through my head that maybe the Capitol is paying for the expense of the food, but I can't see why they would. They're never very generous without a victor. I decide to leave it alone, for the sake of being a polite guest.

A man introduces himself as the cook and lists each of the foods he has prepared. My attention is riveted to a dish of deep red sauce draped over cheesy noodles layered by some sort of meat. Everyone takes a seat; mine between Mom and Madge, and in seconds the first basket of oven-warm rolls is emptied. Even the Mellarks, who live in the business district, are impressed with the food and I realize, no matter the reason for this meal, it is a nice gesture.

For several minutes, only the clinking of the shiny utensils on plates and bowls disturbs the air, ears ignored in response to oversaturated palates. I help myself to a serving-spoonful of the red stuff and then notice that everyone else is piling food onto their plates, except the Mayor who doesn't seem to mind the rapid feast, awaiting his turn for a ladle of soup. My self-consciousness disappears and I drop two more servings onto my plate.

The taste shocks my tongue. It's like nothing I've ever had before! Treats in the Seam are a glass of orange juice or, even more rare, a slice of cake. There's fantastic, filling richness in the sauce, the spices tantalize my mind. My eyes flutter closed as I savor the sensation. I can actually feel my pulse quicken.

Some kids in the Seam grow up without ever having experienced a full stomach. I've been really only been full a few times in my life, and I can say nothing compares to the exquisite senses that saturate me now. A few more bites follow and the warmth of the food dissipates the hollowness in my stomach.

When tributes are sent to the Capitol, they eat these sorts of expensive foods until the Games begin so they have extra energy for the fights. I'm suddenly filled with joy that at least Katniss will get to have experienced this. Shunning all thoughts to bask in this dinner, I scrape the plate clean before I realize how fast my appetite tore through the meal.

Conversation finally breaks out while I'm serving up another plateful of some sort of sliced meat with gravy and peas. Small talk about the weather and about the food dominates the table. The younger Mellark boy, Gale, and I keep quiet, letting the adults talk. I know Allen Mellark some because he's usually at the bakery when I bring in Lady's milk. He probably doesn't know what to add to the conversation, either.

For now, I content myself with another roll, dipping it in the soup that tastes like tomatoes. The drink that the cook serves to me and Allen is different than what the others are having. He calls it root beer, which doesn't sound appetizing one bit. It's dark, bubbling surface doesn't look like the beers that some men drink in the Seam. I sip it for a sample and instantly fall in love. Sugar and bubbles sting my tongue, but once I get over the surprise of the bite, it's delicious!

Eventually the topic of choice must have drifted upon the Games, but I'm still too deeply fascinated by the meal to notice until I hear Katniss' mentioned. Looking up from my plate, I see that Mom is talking about the provisions Katniss "retrieves". Openly mentioning the foraging could invite unwanted focus on Gale, for all Mom knows so she avoids mentioning where Katniss is "retrieving" from.

Mayor Undersee tilts his head. "You may not be aware that Katniss and Gale sell me some delightful strawberries on a pretty regular basis. Where you find them in District Twelve, Gale, I'll never know." The mayor chuckles lightly.

Gale leans forward adjusting the fork in his hand to cut a piece of the sliced meat on his plate. "Katniss has her ways." His response is almost sarcastic and I wonder if Gale will continue to trade the strawberries or start giving them to his younger siblings and widowed mother.

"Well, I know that it isn't easy for you folks to come together here, seeing as what is… going on with the Games," Mayor Undersee pauses to take a gulp from his glass. I glance around the table Madge is looking at her plate and I notice for the first time, she's hardly eaten anything. A half-eaten roll is soaking up some of the sauce from her first serving of the magnificent noodles.

Mrs. Mellark appears to have been soothed out of her eternal spite by whatever drink the adults are having from dusty old bottles. She cups her hands around the glass on the table, not wanting to let it go. Everyone else stares at the mayor who continues, "But the tradition is that the tribute's families eat together on the night of the introduction ceremony and watch the broadcast together, because the tributes always arrive together, as representatives of our district." My glances catch Gale nodding dimly at the words, as though the Mayor has said something that makes good sense to him.

That seems like weak reasoning to me. I had never heard of this tradition until the previous evening when he invited us. I thought we were going to watch the broadcast back at home on the tiny television that sits on a wooden crate.

Mayor Undersee continues waving an open palm over the food, "So, please enjoy this evening and have all you like."

Mom hesitates and then graciously replies, "Thank you for the meal."

The table is quiet again, until Mrs. Undersee begs our pardon and excuses herself. I lean over toward Madge to whisper. "Is your Mom okay?"

She nods, "Try the deviled eggs. You'll like them a lot." I'm not sure what she's referring to until I see the strange little whites cradling weird, creamy yolk sprinkled with some sort of red pepper. These weren't here when the meal began. The cook must have brought them while I was lost, wandering across my plate. Madge was right. They are exquisite, so much that I take two more.

Before long, deserts are presented; two flavors of pudding that I mix together in a small tin bowl the cook provides, and a whole cake. I've never seen an entire cake except in the window of Mr. Mellark's bakery.

Once I'm through my second piece of cake, that truly abnormal sensation of fullness insists within me. I worry that my appetite has convinced me to eat myself sick, but after a few minutes of awkward anxiety, the pressure in the back of my throat subsides and I know the food will stay down. Even with a full belly, I drink two more glasses of water before the mayor announces that the time for the broadcast to begin is approaching.

Everyone stands up slowly, revealing I am not the only one at risk of bursting open. As we saunter back to the sitting room, there's satisfied stomach patting and appreciative comments to the cook who readily absorbs the praise. I thank him timidly and Mayor Undersee too, before following Madge to a spot on a couch. Honestly, I'm thankful for the meal as an escape from my thoughts, a diversion from the Games. I don't think anything else would have been able to distract me from this misery.

Once everyone is settled, Gale tucking his broad shoulders between Allen and me, the mayor turns on the television with a remote control. Never seen one of those before either.

Text floats around the screen, "Please wait," and then the signal from the Capitol swims into view, enormous on this powerful monitor. The replays of yesterday's reapings are wrapping up. We didn't watch those when we got home so I have no idea what other tributes there are this year. Almost always, the tributes from 1, 2, and 4 are volunteers because those districts are richer, the kids are healthier, and participation in the Games is seen as a privilege. I guess if some strong kids were always volunteering, the weak, scared kids would be safe.

With a flourish of each Tribute's image flash up on the screen for a fraction of a second and the replays are finished. Now the introduction ceremony is to begin. The Hunger Games has a special opening theme that begins to play, a tune which sows dread across Panem and now heartache in this room. Then the image fades in; a straight-on shot of massive doors, opening slowly at the end of a broad street. On either side, crowds line the streets, cheering wildly, frantically bored from the months of easy living, raring up for the annual festivities.

The ceremony is a parade of the tributes through Capitol City in horse-drawn chariots for their arrival at the Training Center. It's really little more than a chance to showcase the children in outlandish and expensive outfits that are custom designed every year. They're supposed to relate to the main product of each district. Katniss and Peeta will probably be side by side in overalls with pick axes over their shoulders, just like the years I can remember.

District 1's chariot comes into view followed by District 2 and so on. The kids look strange, in fantastical uniforms and slathered with careful makeup. This year is no different from the usual endless procession of indignities. Some of the kids are barely wearing any clothes at all. The crowd cheers away, loving every minute of the human exhibit.

Suddenly the applause hushes in awe as the chariot carrying Peeta and Katniss emerges. Gasps fills in the sitting room. Peeta and Katniss hold hands and are... burning! Their clothes are simple and black but flames lick at their capes and crowns, tongues of fire spiral into the air behind them as their chariot moves forward. It takes a while to force my eyes to look at something other than the blaze and in that time the crowd in the Capitol has taken up cheering specially for District 12. That never happens. Suddenly, I have a non-edible reason to be glad we came.

Katniss glows with the embers, her face peeled into a beautiful smile, free hand waving to the crowd and even blowing kisses. I can hardly believe it's my sister on the screen!

The cameras abandon the rest of the parade, focusing on District 12's chariot almost exclusively. Chants of Katniss arise, even though Peeta looks just as amazing and lustrous. Something alluring about my sister, the crowd is latching onto. At one turn in the celebration, a rose is thrown from the crowd and Katniss catches it, sending a teasing kiss back in return.

My hand squeezes something and I look down to see Madge has taken my fingers in hers. She leans over to me and whispers, "Katniss is so gorgeous, isn't she?"

I nod faintly, tears blurring the massive image. The cameras stay on Katniss and Peeta for at least half of the celebration, even when President Snow greets the tributes and gives a speech. Dusk falls much later in the Capitol, it's been evening in District 12 for an hour. Now as the light dwindles around the tributes, the fire brightens, standing out even stronger. It must be some sort of false fire because it's so close them, it would scald and they'd tear off the crowns and capes in a hurry.

President Snow completes his speech and the chariots ride off into the maw of the Training Center. The commentators make an immediate beeline to talk about District 12's tributes. Everyone is stunned in the sitting room and we silently watch the replays again and again, seeing my sister: gorgeous, elegant, playful, and on fire! My sister Katniss, who took my place, was set aflame and burned upon the spirits of the Capitol. Katniss, the girl who was on fire.


	5. Chapter 5

5

Gravel and dirt crunch beneath my feet, walking past the edge of Three Corners town. The ramshackle buildings end abruptly; a designated line demarks the agricultural sector. Out here, the only buildings are multileveled apartments stashed here and there between rolling fields. Off on the horizon, a few clouds slide across the warm sky. Walking, the sole means of transportation for residents provides me time to reflect. Inevitably reflection always returns to one part or another of the year's beginning.

After I saw my son on the stairs, and after I talked to others who swore that it was murder, even after Volente Covas declared the case officially an accidental death, I remember what I planned to say to him.

Captain, your investigation cannot possibly be over. There are witnesses you have yet to interview who can corroborate that this was not an accident. That's what I should have said. Of course, I didn't manage to speak so carefully.

That was the first time I had been to his office, seen the same candles layered with dust from years of nonuse. "Kippen, can I call you Kip?"

I shrug, stomach churning from the fresh pain of my son's funeral a few days prior.

"Come on in and take a seat, Kip."

I linger on my feet, agitation cresting verbally. "How can you throw out my son's case? Just like that!" I fling an arm to the side. Covas sits down daintily, staring at me deep in thought. "Mason was murdered, Captain! Murdered! Please, you just can't ignore this!" Anguished tears slip past my eyelashes so I grind into my forearm to mop the fluid up.

He plots his response carefully. "Kippen," Covas taps his fingers on his desk rhythmically. "I closed the investigation because there isn't sufficient evidence for a case. I declared it an accident because it was."

"But it wasn't! You have to reopen it. You have to!"

"Kippen, it was awful what happened to your son and I wish there was something I could do about it." Covas leans forward. "But he's gone and no one can do anything about that."

His words grabbed me like a knife to the heart. I was confused for a while, until it dawned on me that Covas is a protector from the Capitol. Their way is to guard their own. Nothing more.

I've walked for several miles along a road long-since ground to gravel and turn off past a scraggly field, into a massive patch of trees. The safe house is tucked safely away in District 11's more rugged, beaten countryside.

Soon after my sorrow was converted to hatred by Captain Covas, I ran into an old friend of my father's. Scipio had run a business of some sort as a younger man and still maintained a source of income in his later years.

He was something of an uncle I hadn't seen in years, so we met a few times to catch up. One day about two weeks later, the two of us were taking a walk outside of Three Corners, so I could speak without much concern for my vented words being overheard. Since we avoided the fields and orchards that hosted work, I felt at least whispers of my true feelings would be safe from danger. Scipio understood.

Of course, the Peacekeepers murder people with sickening regularity, but there was something different about Mason's death. It had become the issue people whisper rumors between each other, some true ones and others lacking accuracy. "It's agony, you know? Waking up each day with your entire life's achievement gone?"

Our shoes thumped dully across a wooden bridge over an irrigation ditch. "I just... I don't know what to do. I've gone back to Covas four times. Asked that he at least consider the possibility that Penrose might be guilty. I've even tried going up the chain of command. But no one else will meet with me and the Capitol won't return my letters."

Silence rules our walk, tempered by gentle breeze rustling through the plants that surround the path. Distant sounds of singing creep past as well, the tones of field laborers trying to lighten a hard day's workload with the only comfort they are granted: the right to sing. The sun was nearly setting which would bring about quitting time soon after. Only harvest season requires working after dark.

"We're cattle." I say staring at the gentle rise and fall of planted land melding into the horizon. "Our job is to pull a till and it doesn't matter very much if we die, so long as there are ample stocks to replace those who do."

My wizened and bearded friend finally replies, "It's even more ironic in District Ten." That was where the Capitol had its animal livestock raised by more human livestock. "There are good men, still, though. Even among the Peacekeepers, there are a handful of men who do what is right."

I have no idea what to say to this. I'm not a great man, but a good man. When living in the Capitol, I never became a part of the culture and even after two years, coming home to District 11 was an enormous relief. It was strange to feel comforted by the mercilessness of this place, but at least the sick feeling of uncaring debauchery had vacated my gut. Embracing a renewed peace of mind, I met Meyla Morningstar and married her as fast as we dared. Soon there followed a son, our own little Mason Silvernale. The years ticked off in my mind, like the pages falling from fingertips; Mason's first word, his first day at school, his first song in the field, his first reaping, and on.

Speaking slowly, Scipio adds, "There are a few of us... who are preparing to change some things... in Panem," nothing revealed in his stoic face, just the same sun-dried wrinkles where Scipio's whiskers don't hide his skin. "If you are interested, Kippen, I'm sure a man in your unique placement can be very helpful."

Such an offer would take a great deal of thought and I said as much to him. Over the next week, I found moments to whisper about it with my wife; while the water was running and while a loud storm blasted through the district. Meyla was edgy with the idea of my joining an underground movement, but she told me the choice was mine.

As I see it, Mason was the reason for everything Meyla and I ever did. Every choice was made to improve his life. Since that option no longer remained, I prepared myself mentally to make sure justice would find a footing, gain some hold in the world.

Months have gone by since I joined the underground and nothing at all has changed. I have no concept of who is in the movement, what its plans are, what we need to do to get there, what sort of information I should be providing; the list goes on forever. In my opinion, it seems to be the most disorganized rebellion in history.

As I enter the safe house, Scipio acknowledges me only by word, until I tell him about Rue.

"Your niece?" Scipio is finally drawn out from his writing by my revelation.

"Rue is only twelve years old and not even ninety pounds." I lean against the door. This musty old shack was abandoned ages ago. It was left to ruin because it's too far from the nearest fields, nestled deep into a forest. After a long day of work, walking three miles home is simply too arduous. The Capitol tore down most of the old homes after they reassigned people to the apartment dwellings among the fields. The underground movement in District 11 had appropriated this forgotten home and repaired the collapsed roof, careful that attention isn't drawn to the secluded hideout.

No one ever came out this way. In fact, I have concluded that the underground is not a very big organization since only a few people have ever been here. Each time I come to this sequestered place, the only place in the world where I know I can proclaim my mind without fear of eavesdropping, there's only one or two people, usually Scipio, sometimes no one.

Scipio drops his pen and stands up, scratching his silver beard. He might be the oldest man in District 11. Even so, he's still as physically animated as ever. I don't really understand him. No one could be more worked up over the Capitol's tyranny than he, and yet, he calls incessantly for patience and moderation. For the moment he's slow to reply, doubtless searching for words that would cool my boiling blood; words that don't exist.

"That… is unfortunate." His eyes pierce mine in a stony gaze. "I'm sorry."

My jaw shakes bitterly. "Are you kidding? You've been saying we're close to the right time, that things are under way in the other districts. We have to do something, now!" I stab my finger into the table for emphasis.

Scipio puts his hands up defensively. "We are close, Kippen. We are. But the time has not yet arrived." He sets a hand on my shoulder and I shake off his consolation.

"I need to know the plan! You have to tell me what's going on and what's being done about the Games."

Scipio turns away and lights a new candle to replace one about to burn off the last of its wax. "You deserve some honest answers. None of the other members have gone through quite what your family has." He turns around and sets the new candle on the table. Even with a dozen, the lighting is pitiful, just something you get used to. Bad eyes are a real hassle throughout Panem.

"Tell me."

"Honestly," he matches my glare, voice graveled with age. "I don't know what the plan is."

That statement leaves me speechless. Scipio is the most meticulously detailed person I have ever met, and he doesn't even have a plan for the rebel group he's been building?

He continues. "It can't begin in District Eleven. We are already the brunt of the Capitol's harshest violence and our people can't even afford to eat half of the time. They can't possibly stand up against the size of the Peacekeeper force that is stationed here."

"There's no plan?"

"There is a plan, but I don't have it. We can do nothing until some of the Peacekeepers are drawn out of District Eleven to reinforce other fronts. My immediate concern is with preparing the rebels here for that opportunity, for when that situation arises." Scipio sits down again and brushes his beard with his palm.

"So, you don't know what the plan is?" Scipio shakes his head and I growl, "Then how do you know whether we're close or not?"

"I can get indications-"

"What sort?" My bared teeth bite half of his sentence off.

Scipio hesitates again and it crosses my mind that he could be lying outright. "Kippen, look, the Hunger Games are the key. Everyone in the districts knows they are the focal point of evil for this government. The underground has built up a small support network to use the Games to force Capitol City residents to see what they really are."

"Could you shut the Games down?"

"No, that would only expose who we have in place. The Capitol would replace them with loyalists and execute our agents. Trust me, Kip, we're doing exactly what needs to be done at exactly the pace it needs to happen and no matter how much you or I want things to change faster, they simply cannot."

I don't understand. How can the Games be made worse in the eyes of people who revel in annual bloodlust? "What are you going to do? Make it more boring?"

"I told you. I don't know the plan, and it's better if fewer people know."

Anyone in the underground would naturally understand the necessity of information control, but I can't help muttering, "If anyone actually has a plan in the first place."

"Kippen," Scipio waits until I sit across from him. "Good minds and passionate hearts are in this. Some of them are making decisions that are far more difficult than anything you and I have to worry about, and I really mean that. Hard as things are, you have to continue doing what's right. Don't let the Capitol take your dignity from you. There is more going on than the tragedy of our own lives. It's bigger than us."

My breath heaves out stress. At least in this rustic, forgotten shack I can speak my mind, grieve and rage, I can think without having to mask my words. "Then give me some hope. Give me some sense," I wave my hands in frustration, "of this change we're close to achieving."

Scipio stacks the papers he was writing on and slides them into a large envelope to protect them from the elements that seep into the cabin. "I know the Hunger Games will be different this year. There's someone special that was involved, someone important in one of the reapings."

"But not ours?"

"No, our District is under too much pressure and scrutiny. The security is just too high for us to have much subversive latitude."

"So, you don't know where and you don't know what and you don't know how, and really, you don't know when? What? Did you have a mayor fixing a selection?"

"I'm not sure if we actually have a mayor but we at least have someone close to the process that we can trust. You will be following the Games more than usual this year, I suppose?" I nod. "I will too, but you have to give your attention to more than your own personal strife if you want to make a difference in this world."

My hands wave dismissively. "So, Rue's just… gone?"

In the flickering light, Scipio's bushy eyebrows angle upward slightly. "I am truly sorry, Kip."

I storm out of the cabin, grateful for the tree grove which surrounds the safe house since it will give me time to reseal my exterior. I can't display myself, no matter how infuriated. Light wafts through blanket of leaves here and there. The air is dry, cooling already with the oncoming approach of the fall season.

Use the Hunger Games against the Capitol? I had come to see the people of that wretchedly lavish city as too animalistic to ever see the district residents as anything besides beasts for entertainment and labor. The only way they'd ever turn against the Games is if their own children are subjected to reapings. Whatever the plan is, it's not going to work.

The only people who will ever rise up are those in the poorer, weaker districts, those who lose everything or have nothing, and already hate the Games. They've hated the games for the seventy-some-odd years since the Treaty of Treason created this annual event. What more atrocity could there be to get Panem's subjects to rise up? I feel it's too late, already and yet another member of my family is lost to the ravages of the Capitol's insatiable lust for evil.

The sun pummels glaringly across the landscape, still several degrees above the horizon, as I emerge from the trees. Night will fall before I have made my way home. Meyla will probably have dinner already prepared so I entice my stomach to grumble as hunger joins hate.

Do nothing! That same command Scipio gave to me months ago has resurfaced. Of course, he never used those words, always advocating his underground agents to learn what we can and relay information into the network, to keep track of everything possible. He was especially insistent that my role is passive intelligence gathering, since I have regular access to government buildings.

But what good is information if you just pass it on and no one ever does anything with it? All I have found out with intelligence gathered is this: the underground is entirely submissive and the Capitol maintains impunity to do as it pleases, whenever and however it pleases.

My thoughts are plagued by emotional conflicts: my hatred for the Capitol, the Peacekeepers, Jura Penrose, and that two-faced Captain Volente Covas, who pretends to be a friend so he can see me squirm and stew in the misery of my son's death. I'm confident, every one of our conversations, blood steaming from my eyes, is the subject of jovial Peacekeepers around their cafeteria meals or the occasional liquored drink which even the Peacekeepers have in a few illegal basement bars around District 11. Capitol sadism is a way of life and it must be stopped.

The final warm rays set and orange ochre fades quickly into lavender before disappearing from the sky, leaving cold grey clouds and a mirth of stars scattered above. I can see the road alright in the silvery moonlight. In two days Hannah and Marek will have to watch Rue die a muddy, bloody, sick, and lonely death. Do nothing? My toe kicks a clump of dirt back into the roadside ditch.

Sparse trees laze between each field; mockingjays sing the tunes of workers who are already heading back home. My path brings me near them and I time my gait just between the groups. I'm lacking the clothes and equipment of field work and would prefer not to answer questions about what I'm doing out here, as opposed to enduring the lash of overeager shift watchmen.

Meyla greets me at the door when I finally arrive, with a hug no less. This is different from the usual, and I hug her back, needing respite, needing a cradle for my weary head. During a dinner of potatoes and a few slices of ham we discuss my sister's family.

Compassion for my sister's family has revived my wife from the aimless days we've been living, given her a reason to go on. Similar to the way the underground had given me inspiration months ago.

"I've decided to start a collection drive to sponsor Rue," Meyla says over the meal. Sponsors can pay the Gamemakers to deliver gifts to tributes in the arena: things like food, medicine, or survival supplies. The rates are exorbitant and it is always up to the tribute's mentor when and what they would receive. Rue's mentor is a gentle old woman named Seeder who had won the Hunger Games the better part of two decades before I was born.

"Oh, yeah? How are you doing that?" I ask, savoring the sweet juicy ham, opulence for district residents.

"I talked to someone in the Reaping Office and they told me how to set up a donation box. They even contacted Seeder for me and they're going to let me put up signs and ask for donations from people."

I nod. "That's good. Have you told Hannah yet?" The potatoes and butter melt in my mouth.

Meyla almost smiles, "She's having a rough time, but we're going to be there for her." My wife is the affectionate one between the two of us. She could always be counted on for a comforting touch or some gentle words.

That was missing after Mason died since neither of us had the will to take care of each other. I suppose she can now work up compassion for my sister. It's a strange sensation, the light jealousy that she should have been there for me, even though I wasn't there for her. Jealousy mixes awkwardly with the relief that my sister and her husband won't be alone in this public nightmare. Meyla will be with them the whole time, taking care of the children when they can't, cooking and cleaning and being a strong shoulder.

This distance from my wife may never heal, but my heart still beats every at moment with love for her and I sometimes dream that we will be alright some day. Never great without those we love, but okay, if the underground stops hiding and starts fighting.

Once dinner is finished, we wash the dishes. In the living room, we turn on the television, it tunes to the Hunger Games program which has already begun tonight. Nothing is live tonight. More propaganda glorifying the Hunger Games and then they will announce the tribute's scores.

Over the past three days, the tributes have trained in weaponry, wilderness survival, and other assorted talents. During that time the Gamemakers have observed them and at the end of the third day, each of the tributes gets to perform before the Gamemakers by themselves for private scrutiny. They are scored on levels from one to twelve, based upon whether the Gamemakers think they will do well or poorly in the arena. Essentially, the scores provide a bearing for odds-makers since betting goes on in the districts and the Capitol alike. The higher a tribute's score the better.

Children's snapshots flash up on the screen, new images that have been taken since the arrival procession. Beneath the faces their score number is stamped on the screen. Plainly, this year will be no different than those of recent memory. The volunteers from the richer districts garner eights, nines, and tens. The others are typical: fours, fives, and sixes.

Then the male tribute from District 11 flashes up, an enormous boy named Thresh who towered over his female counterpart and competitor. He has been awarded a nine which seizes attention. District 11 hasn't had so strong a tribute in years. Rue's face graces the screen, sweet and tan, her cheeks more full than I remember. They have been feeding her well, better than she's ever had it, actually. She has a seven underneath her chin and for a fleeting moment I'm proud.

Seven is a much better score than I thought she would receive even if it's hopeless. The screen changes to the pale boy from Twelve and I look away, standing up from the couch. I'm almost out of the room when I hear my wife gasp. "Kip! Look at that girl who had that burning costume!"

The young girl had a natural scowl, as though her eyebrows were shaped by a hard life, as they surely were. But she was pretty, nonetheless. I recall she was the one who volunteered for her sister so I decide to like her, admire her selflessness. The number is ridiculous. I haven't seen anyone get a score of eleven for decades. Eleven! The name beneath the number reads "Katniss Everdeen" and it rivets into my mind.

"Wow. I wonder what she showed the Gamemakers." I muse.

"She doesn't look like she could do much, she's pretty small." Meyla notes. Even with an eleven and twenty pounds on Rue, this Katniss couldn't possibly overpower the other teenagers. "She must have done something amazing. That would fit." Meyla refers to the flaming outfit that Katniss' and the boy's stylists dreamed up. Katniss' image lingers on the screen like the Capitol really wants to show off how they gave her an eleven.

"Maybe this year will be different." I quip. Maybe Thresh will win or this girl, Katniss. I remember what Scipio told me and wonder if District 12 winning will have any sort of affect on the Capitol. Try as I might, I can't think of any way it would make a difference to the Capitol.

They love heroes, the victors of the games, and each year the ceremonies are lavish with winners who have survived previous Hunger Games. Following a year with a little girl victor from the pathetic coal mining district, won't the Capitol's crowds be ravenous for more displays of the fierceness they so love? Unusual as they would be this year, Rue will be gone and my sister will experience the heart-stopping agony of mourning your child's death along with twenty-two other families this year.

No different. Do nothing. I shake my head.


	6. Chapter 6

6

Monday, another day of school. Classes drag by with insufferable sluggishness. More coal lessons, more reading and writing and 'the Capitol is wonderful' and arithmetic. I can't wait to get out of this stuffy prison.

Last night Mom and I watched the Gamemakers' scores. Peeta scored an eight which was unexpected, although not as shocking as Katniss' eleven. Mom and I jumped up and down laughing. I was sure last night that Katniss may actually win, though today that euphoria has worn off.

Things are never as simple as the numbers provided by the Gamemakers. Katniss may do well, except half of the combat comes down to pure chance and luck; who sees who first. I can only hope that the time she's spent hunting with Gale will come in as the best training a tribute could ever get.

At last, the final class of the day releases and I rush out, dashing past the other kids. They have been quiet toward me since the Reaping. Even my friends don't say much. They're probably worried that they'll make me cry if they say something wrong and maybe I would. What few words I do get are dripping with cautious compassion. It's appreciable, if becoming annoying. It just reminds me that I was selected, that Katniss had to volunteer.

There he is. I hurry to catch Gale as he rushes out of the schoolyard, himself. "Gale!" I shout. "Wait a second!"

He stops and turns. "Hey, Prim. What's up?"

I catch up to him and both of us head toward the Seam, Gale moving slower so my short legs don't have to churn so quickly. "Did you see it last night? What did you think?"

"Yeah, she seems to have done well." He thinks before going on. "I don't know how she could have impressed the Gamemakers that much."

I adjust the oversized pack on my shoulders so it doesn't poke my ribs. "What do you mean? How good is she, really?"

"Katniss is a fantastic shot with a bow and I'm sure the bows at the Training Center are superior to anything we have but..." Gale trails off and we walk half a block without speaking. He elaborates, "It's just that, one skill can't get you that good a score. You can only get an eleven by having a well-rounded set of skills that will come in handy in every situation."

"Well, you trap animals right? And what about the plants and things she knows how to find?" I really want to work up some hope, partly because I'm finding it harder not to blame myself for my sister's selection.

"Yeah, but she's not that great with the traps and food only helps you stay alive. It doesn't help you fight which is how most of the Games end." Gale's tone is bitter. He might miss Katniss more than I do. They were so close.

He glances at me, pain evident in his eyes. I wonder if he blames me for what happened to Katniss. I look away bashful. "She did something though. I mean, they gave her the highest score out of all the tributes."

"Yes, and that might make her more likely to get sponsors which can be good, but it might also make her a target. Look, Prim." Gale takes my arm and draws me to a halt. Towering over me, he has to look down at my face. "The only thing we can do is hope. The score doesn't matter." Gale braces his voice but it still creaks mildly with his fear. "And if she doesn't come back... we just have to remember her and move on, as hard as it might be."

I knew this was always going to be the answer, even with Katniss' high score. Shame flushes across my face and tears well up in my eyes. Gale squeezes my shoulder lightly. Even through the blurriness of my wilting eyes, I can see Gale's going through the same misery. He wishes he had volunteered to take Peeta's place, if only to make sure Katniss came back. "Come on, Prim. Let's get you home." We continue walking.

Gale has been bringing food and supplies to our house still, as Katniss said he would, and his mother, Hazelle, had suggested we picnic as a group tonight and watch the interviews in the business district. Gale was still going hunting before dinner and I had chores, so we parted ways after reaching the Seam.

I milk Lady, and shovel out the stall, feed her, and then trade more milk and cheese in the business district. Instead of heading home, I stop in to help Mom's business. The apothecary shop is having a slow day. We talk about the scores and the mayor's food and Gale and Katniss.

When I first met Gale, he was scary, intimidating even. A quiet and tall, muscular teenager who also doesn't smile very much. Over the years though, he's come to be something of a friend to the family and somewhere along the line I decided that Katniss should marry him, in spite of my sister repeatedly insisting she could never marry anyone. She's still angry at our mother and depressed from losing Dad. She could do worse than Gale. All of the older girls at school say Gale is 'dreamy.' He's just very nice to me.

When closing time arrives, Mom and I lock up the shop, having already cleaned more than necessary, and head back to our house to pack up some food. On the way, Mom buys a small bag of peppermints, which she insists are delightful. They have a sharp scent when I sniff the bag. I've never had those before and they're expensive. Mom just says that the picnic should be nice. I know why. It will be the last time we see Katniss before the Games begin. Anxiety for that eventual fate is burning me up inside, rousing demons that I didn't know existed and preying upon my heart.

Once some food is packed into a rucksack, we wait for the Hawthorne family. They arrive right on time, Gale, Hazelle, and the three little kids. I don't even know their names, but Mrs. Hawthorne I see sometimes. She washes our clothes for us and some other families in the Seam.

Hazelle hugs Mom and gives me a kiss on the cheek as she embraces me. "You look more like your mother everyday, dear!" I smile. Mom is very pretty.

We move out to a nice area on the edge of the business district near the fence, which still isn't electrified even though the electricity has been on much more consistently. Maybe the local Peacekeepers prefer to allow the few scavengers and hunters to bring back better quality provisions than what is shipped in from elsewhere in Panem.

The food is amazing. Gale has brought a salad of wild greens, carrots, black berries, and even some decent bread with garlic. He also made sandwiches with some sort of white meat. I decide not to ask what the meat is because sometimes you find out you're eating something that, while fine, doesn't sound alright. You lose the precious sustenance in a fit of vomit that's only borne of queasiness and not quality.

Mom and Hazelle talk about light subjects as we kids and Gale eat. This is the second time in the past seven days that the food provided to me overcomes my emotional aversion to eating. This meal is nothing like the food we had at Mayor Undersee's but it's still far better to what we normally have in the Seam and a feast by comparison.

Halfway through my sandwich, my mind wonders what supplies we will lack for the next few weeks since we're eating some of what would normally be traded. Probably candles. Electrical power is provided almost regularly during the Hunger Games so we can forgo wax lighting for a few weeks.

Lately, I haven't even been eating as much as I had pre-Reaping, never feeling quite up to calming my grumbling belly. I have even lost some weight since Katniss left, in spite of the mayor's generosity. It's best if I take advantage of this meal. I break out some bits of goat cheese and distribute them while Mom pours some of Lady's milk into tin cups.

It's like we're one big family. Picnics are so rare, but Gale, distant as he is, seems satisfied to be sharing everything with us. The sun fades in the western sky and Mom breaks out the peppermint treats as we're packing up the cups. She was right, the peppermints are great, a lot like the mint tea we make by boiling leaves, but fifty times stronger! Sharp and sweet, so potent I can smell the mint even when I inhale through my mouth.

As a group, we walk through town toward the square where passersby can watch the interviews, Gale carrying his little sister who's fallen asleep. Several groups of people are gathered in the square, huddled around each of the screens that will stay up until the Games are finished. Mom and Hazelle pick a screen and we gather as close as we can to the enormous image.

The shot is of the same circular plaza in the Capitol where the interviews are done every year. All around it, Capitol citizens arrive to stand around the sequestered circle and the commentators are discussing some of the people, pointing out notable individuals in balconies of buildings around the square. Apparently some of them are important in the Capitol's society for one reason or another. They and their notoriety mean nothing to district residents.

Signifying the beginning of the event, the stylists take their places. Almost immediately the screen shifts to a man and woman who almost look normal, especially compared to the other stylists who try to outdo each other in attention grabbing colors on cloth, skin, hair and even stranger places. "And that is Cinna and Portia who collaborated to bring us those children in flames from District Twelve, this year." The commentators banter back and forth about synthetic flame until the shot shifts to other stylists.

Then, the tributes walk into the shot, some shuffling, others parading. Each of them is wearing a new outfit made specially for this night. Katniss emerges, her dress glittering with thousands of jewels that make her look like shimmering flames, sparkling as she moves to a chair and sits down. Peeta's clothing is more reserved with simple flame highlights on black cloth. Katniss looks outstanding once more and I'm glad that Cinna, who designed this dress, is not flamboyant, but tasteful.

A flamboyant Caesar Flickerman dances out onto the stage. He's the host and has been since before I was alive. His hair is light blue matching the makeup on his face. Caesar's freakish appearance is pushed to even more ridiculous proportion by the glittery lights on his dark suit. Flickerman introduces himself to applause and says a few lines, each drawing raucous laughter from the Capitol audience. No one here responds. I don't even understand the jokes.

The interviews begin with District 1, girls first and move down the line. None of the banter and preening interests me much. There's one boy who limps on one foot as he walks to his interview. I despise myself when I discover I've begun suppressing the compassion I would normally have for him.

Then Caesar gets to District 11. I didn't know another person as young as me had been selected, but the little tanned girl looks like she might be even smaller than I am. It's hard to tell from the shots. She's wearing some kind of fairy gown with wings. Rue Amaranth scored high for her size, only saying that she can be sneaky during the interview. "I'm very hard to catch and if they can't catch me they can't kill me."

Flickerman adores her as he does with essentially all of the tributes. Then after the huge boy from District 11, it's Katniss' turn at last. She looks a tad uneasy for a second, until shaking hands with Caesar Flickerman; she melts into a sort of teasing grace.

"So, Katniss, the Capitol must be quite a change from District Twelve. What's impressed you most since you arrived here?"

She pauses, the anxiety moving back into her eyes until she recovers, "The lamb stew."

Flickerman finds this enormously funny, but it's not that funny to me. Clearly, with all those fat people in the audience, the Capitol has plenty and is simply not letting District 12 have very much food. Maybe if they sent more, we could keep our bones from poking through our skin.

The interview shifts to the fire costume and Katniss does a few turns so the cameras can get a good look at this dress of precious stones. The audience is cooing and laughing, loving every minute of Katniss. They're so much more alive with her interview than they were with the others. Maybe fire is going to be the new fashion standard.

Moving the interview along, Flickerman asks, "So, how about that training score? E-leven! Give us a hint what happened in there."

Katniss looks out into the crowd, her beautiful face shown in close up. Cinna didn't put much makeup on her, opting to accent her authentic appeal. She stutters in reply, "Um... all I can say, is I think it was a first."

The shot cuts to the Gamemakers box where they're laughing and grinning.

"You're killing us. Details! Details!" Flickerman insists.

Katniss is back on the screen, "I'm not supposed to talk about it, right?" A reply shouts back, too muffled to perceive. Katniss smiles, "Thank you. Sorry. My lips are sealed."

Flickerman changes the subject again. "Let's go back then, to the moment they called your sister's name at the reaping. And you volunteered." Mom puts her hands on my shoulders. I lean against her for support, shaking with dread. "Can you tell us about her?"

Katniss nearly lets her scorn show, her natural expression take over. "Her name's Prim. She's just twelve and I love her more than anything." The lump is back in my throat, guilt or anger or sorrow. Maybe all three and more.

"What did she say to you, after the reaping?"

My sister freezes certainty and confidence in her brown eyes. "She asked me to try really hard to win." My lumpy throat quivers with the memory of my stupid words.

"And what did you say?"

Darkness joins Katniss' steely look, unblinking, she looks dangerous now. Beautifully lethal. "I swore I would." My heart throbs in my chest and I feel Mom kiss the top of my head.

With that the interview wraps up to thunderous applause both from the Capitol and around the square. I bury my face in Mom's shirt to soak up my timidity. When I let myself back into the real world, some of the people in the crowd nod to me. Maybe they think that I've inspired her to win more than plain survival will. It's strange to me. It's all my fault!

Peeta's halfway through his interview, dazzling the crowd with his winning personality. Flickerman is asking him, "There must be some special girl. Come on, what's her name?"

Peeta's joviality warps into dissatisfaction. "Well, there is this one girl. I've had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I'm pretty sure she didn't know I was alive until the reaping."

The Capitol's audience 'awws' as one, as if taking empathy on Peeta, enough to understand, but not quite enough to cancel the Games.

Flickerman prods further, playing on the crowd's sympathies. "She have another fellow?"

"I don't know, but a lot of boys like her." Peeta allows his mood to descend into gloom.

"So, here's what you do. You win, you go home. She can't turn you down then, eh?" Flickerman nudges his elbow at Peeta.

Peeta shrugs dejectedly, "I don't think it's going to work out. Winning... won't help in my case."

Flickerman is taken aback, "Why ever not?"

With embarrassment flooding his face, Peeta struggles to answer. "Because... because... she came here with me."

Shock floods through my veins as the cameras cut to a shot of Katniss. She's equally surprised, her mouth hanging open, face blushing. My sister looks down so the cameras can't get a good shot of her and finally they cut back to the interview.

"Oh, that is a piece of bad luck." Flickerman moans, with almost authentic distress.

"It's not too good." Peeta's voice shakes somewhat.

"Well, I don't think any of us can blame you. It'd be hard not to fall for that young lady. She didn't know?"

"Not until now." The camera's pan to Katniss again and she's biting her lip trying not to be seen, trying to sink through her chair into the ground. I don't know what to feel for my sister here. It's simply too much of a surprise. Peeta likes Katniss?

When Flickerman asks the crowd if they'd like to hear what Katniss thinks about this, they wail to have another interview. But the time is up and Caesar dispenses with the idea. "Well, best of luck to you, Peeta Mellark, and I think I speak for all of Panem when I say that our hearts go with yours."

Accompanied by the roar of the crowd, the Panem national anthem begins its over-used strains once more. The program wraps up; the crowd around us is rife with conversations about Peeta's revelation.

I look at Gale and see his eyebrows furrowed in deep thought, or maybe anger. Mom breaks our silence. "Is it true, Gale? Or is that just for show?"

Gale shrugs, he doesn't know. He doesn't say anything, either. I suppose it could be something that Haymitch, Katniss, and Peeta cooked up to get District 12 noticed. They should have many sponsors now, especially with Katniss' eleven rating and Peeta's eight. Even though they will be competing against each other, those are the best ratings for tributes from the coal district in a long time.

We walk home talking about the styles in the Capitol, how ridiculous they are and how gorgeous Katniss looked in her gemstone sequins. By the time we get home, the Hawthorne's continuing deeper into the Seam to their house, that sinking feeling has grown worse than before.

There are no more events left. Tomorrow, during midmorning, the Hunger Games would start, as they did each year, with a few tributes having established pre-arranged alliances to destroy the weaker children, before turning on each other after a week or two of hunting down all the non-allied tributes.

I decide to sleep in Mom's bed again. The nightmares will be worse tonight. Still they aren't nearly as bad as the waking days ahead.

Halfway through the second class of the day, the lesson is drawn to a close and the televisions in each classroom are tuned in to the Hunger Games broadcasts. Currently, highlights of the events in the Capitol are playing, featuring an abundance of Katniss and Peeta the edges of the screen layered with some type of fire effect. The girl next to me named Alabeth leans over and whispers "Are you going to be okay, Primrose?" Normally, I only hear my full name when Mom is scolding me.

I nod faintly, sweat forming in my palms. Wiping them on my skirt, I try to breathe deeper to slow my pulse. The initial minutes of the Hunger Games are always disturbing but this year...

The tributes are always placed equidistant from a large metal cornucopia that's always packed with supplies of varied sort. Random items are placed on the ground too. Some kids, usually those kids that have alliances will take control of the supplies and some of the rest will flee for the woods. It seems no matter how many times it ends in disaster, a few loners will try to get supplies only to be swiftly killed by the more powerful, organized Career tributes. Maybe those kids are allied too, and think they'll be the ones winning. Maybe it's a team against team situation that is never fully revealed because one team always loses in the bloodbath.

Usually the arenas are enormous outdoor spectacles with thousands of cameras disguised in the landscape, from jungles to deserts to glaciers to woodlands to wetlands. It really could be anything, and what is guaranteed is that the Gamemakers will have rigged much of the environment so they can manipulate it at will to liven the dull days where few tributes fight. They can even control the local weather patterns quite effectively.

At last the screen fades to black and a deep voice blasts from the television. Claudius Templesmith, the announcer. "Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!"

The image swirls into view, showing a bright field of short, dying grass and dried mud bound on several quarters by deep, rolling forests and on another a sweeping, golden field, endless. A decent sized lake rests a short distance from the cornucopia.

All the tributes are standing on platforms; the cameras take turns getting a close up of each with a listing of the tribute's name, district number, and rating appearing beside each face. They're required to stay on the platforms for sixty seconds for these shots, until the landmines around the platforms are disabled.

Several of the kids look scared, but the pretty girl from District 2, Clove, looks insanely exhilarated to be in the Games. She was a volunteer, of course. Some of those districts that like the Games have complicated processes of determining which volunteer is elevated to tribute status. My nervous lips mutter to myself, "It would be nice if they could volunteer for other districts too."

Alabeth looks over at me. "What?"

I just shake my head. It's not long before Katniss has her extended close up; she's gazing intently over the cornucopia and nearby contents. Oh, no Katniss. Don't go for supplies, they'll kill you! Just get out of there! My mind screams, but her eyes glue onto some object halfway between her and the golden horn.

The camera pans backward and I notice she's dressed as all the other female tributes, plain brown pants, a green shirt, and a jacket. Pinned onto her shirt is some sort of gold medallion and the shot tightens on it. It's a strange bird flying in a ring. I don't recognize it, though there isn't a great deal of birds inside the fence at District 12. Mining is underground so our district is very small. Birds stay in the expansive wilderness.

Katniss would know what it is, but then she's wearing it. I wonder where she got it from since it would be very expensive. Maybe you can sponsor kids before they even get to the arena and someone in the Capitol thought it would be nice to have their token jewelry on the girl who's creating such a stir in Panem.

Peeta's revelation of his crush had been a hot topic in the schoolyard this morning. Apparently some friends of Peeta's said that he never talked to them about her. That even so, it was obvious he liked her. So, he wasn't lying which makes it all the more difficult to watch, because they're enemies now, thanks to the Capitol which is supposedly captivated by Katniss and empathetic for Peeta. Hypocrites!

The image finally pans to someone else and the broadcast has to rush through the remaining tributes in order to get all twenty four in before the sixty seconds is up, leaving each tribute up for a second at the most.

A tone rings over the audio signal and the image switches to a wide view of the expansive field. Immediately every tribute dashes off their plate, except one. The label over her head reads "12-F"; District 12-Female. Katniss hesitates before sprinting for the cornucopia, scooping up a few supplies on the way. My fingers wrap tightly around the edge of my desk. Every muscle in my body clenches in spasms.

When she gets to an orange backpack, a boy whose label reads "9-M" grabs at it and my sister tugs against the pack. I'm holding my breath, the edge of my vision framed in dark red.

The shot shifts so more of the fighting can be seen. 1-B slashes 7-B with a curved blade. 3-G is caught by 6-B's shoulder; 6-B goes to the ground after her and reaches for her neck. 4-B is hit by something held by someone else. In the jumble, I finally find Katniss and the boy struggling when the boy falls slack, a throwing knife sticking out of his back. 2-G, Clove, who wields the knives, throws another after Katniss who is running away, backpack flailing.

My voice squeaks shrilly as I see the knife plunge between my sister's shoulder blades! I can't see the television anymore, the redness overtakes my vision and I feel myself slip from consciousness. One final thought lingers before oblivion seizes the world away; _it should have been me_.


	7. Chapter 7

7

Rue makes it to the edge of the forest before any other tribute, her little legs zipping faster than I can believe. She's instantly gone and the cameras focus on the melee at the cornucopia. The boy from District 8 is in hand-to-hand combat with the boy from 2 who drops his opponent with a rapid combination of a punch to the gut and devastating right hook to the cheek. The camera pans to show more tributes dying from various wounds.

Then for a moment, it tightens on two girls, Clove throwing a knife at Katniss from 12. The knife stabs into a backpack that the fleeing girl tugs on just in time, dashing furiously across the plain toward the edge of the trees. Clove turns around looking for other targets. Violence reigns on the screen as my eyes scan for the male tribute from District 11, Thresh. He's not in the pandemonium, wisely opting to flee, even strong as he is. I decide I have seen enough for now.

Hannah is on the couch, held by Marek, neither of them watching the screen, looking vaguely at the ceiling and panting off their worry. Rue got away. It won't end today. No one can catch her in the trees. She's worked her whole life in the orchards, her tiny stature helping her nearly become a squirrel in how she can scamper from limb to limb. The size of the forests will provide food and security, at least for a while.

Meyla chose not to watch the initial bloodbath, where a huge number of children perish every year. She's in the dining room taking care of Wren and Breck who are too young to attend school.

My hand slips onto Hannah's shoulder and I whisper, "She's alright."

"Oh, Kip." Her hand squeezes mine and she shakes her head, unable to speak.

Rue's not alright. It's only a matter of time, but I decide to try to comfort my sister anyway. "She's in an enormous forest where she's been her whole life. She has a real chance."

Hannah and Marek both half turn to look at me. "You really think so?" Hannah asks. I glance down, not wanting to accept their staring eyes. Hannah bursts into tears.

Marek pulls her toward himself. "Kip means well, honey." He leans closer to her ear and whispers.

My eyes are already back on the screen where a few more children are engaged in drawn out standoffs, neither wanting to attack first for fear of leaving themselves unprotected. This usually lasts quite a bit, followed by bounding pursuits, the last straggling non-allies trying to get away, chased into the distance until the pursuers gives up or overcomes the fleeing tribute.

The shots tighten up to show the 'action' for the demented fanatics that comprise the Capitol's population. It's sickening, but I know that television usage is being monitored so, leaving it running, I go into the kitchen where Meyla is feeding Breck and Wren is struggling to swallow an enormous bite of cracker. My wife asks me with her expression, what's happened?

I shake my head, "Rue got away. She's in a big forest. She'll live today."

Meyla takes a deep breath and sighs. "Thank goodness." She spoons another lousy glop of oatmush into Breck's mouth, wiping off the smear that the one-year-old pushes back out with his tongue.

"Mey, I was thinking, why don't we give some of my savings to that fund you arranged to sponsor Rue. I've got to have enough to make a substantial donation."

She nods, "I'm sure that would be helpful. We can spare a bit more than most families."

My eyes wince, even though I know she didn't mean anything. Family. We can spare pretty much everything, really. My job isn't hard enough that age will prevent me from continuing and there's no one except for the Amaranths to whom I might consider giving my savings. In Panem, there's no such thing as a retirement fund unless you set one aside for yourself.

The Capitol's cruel economic arrangement precludes most people from being able to save anything; every penny must go to fueling the body for another day. It's an adequate method of control that the Capitol has perfected. But my job is specialized and my pay is significantly better than the average, probably considered a payoff by the powers that be to ensure I do a good job repairing the Capitol's buildings. If it is a bribe, it hasn't worked. It's crossed my imagination more than once this past week to let structural problems go unnoticed; maybe even push them along. Oh, the things you can do with cut cord…

I walk into the bedroom and reach for a metal lockbox we keep hidden behind our dresser. My key opens it with a tinny snap revealing the coins and bills stashed into each of the containers. I don't really have a system; just cram money where ever it will fit. My fingers snatch out two containers-worth of bills and count them. It's a bigger sum than I expected it would be. It should help get something decent for Rue, but Seeder will have to be very discerning.

Gifts rise in price each hour as the Games progress. Food may be pricey at the beginning, but it's prohibitively expensive later on. Rue probably won't need food in that forest and she probably won't need medicine since residents of 11 are schooled very well in herbal agriculture. Rue could probably find anything she needed except for strength.

I can't think of any weapons she could use well and don't recall ever seeing a weapon sent as a gift. It may not be allowed, or simply too expensive to be worth it, considering the plethora of cruel devices provided at the cornucopia. Nevertheless, I resolve not to leave Rue hanging without support. Seeder will know what to do, if we give her the funding to provide options.

Stuffing the money into my pocket, I close the lid of the box and tuck it away. Back in the kitchen, Hannah and Marek have vacated the living room. I glance in and make sure the television is still on. The kids are chasing each other and the cameras can't decide who to watch as countless tributes race over acres, some alone, some accompanied or pursued.

Hannah has picked up Wren who finished the cracker and is telling her in cute toddler sentences about the stove. Marek has taken over spoon-feeding Breck; Meyla leans against the counter arms crossed, almost satisfied. She hasn't looked this normal since Mason died. She's so beautiful! I never forgot that, even with her hair silver at the edges, face tired and gaunt.

Somehow life is back in her, a liveliness she radiates that sends memories of our past rushing through my vision. I met Meyla while she was buying grain. She was still living with her parents and working in the fields almost every day of the year save Reaping day, having finished schooling.

We were both taken with each other immediately. Our courtship blazes in my thoughts, then our simple marriage; a ceremony held in her parent's apartment. She was so beautiful in the dress we borrowed from a nice aging, couple. Flowers bowed toward her as she crept gracefully into the room. Meyla's skin is a little darker than mine but her hair was a lighter shade of brown. Her golden eyes gleamed as did her smile and I was lost in joy.

She hasn't changed that much, really. What changed was the world. It was never an easy place, yet it has become intolerable. Leaning against the bedroom door frame, I drift into thoughts of Mason's childhood, how things almost seemed acceptable barring the two weeks leading up to each Reaping. Then there was that one thing that had nagged at my mind even though I thought it petty at the time.

Benefiting from my salary, Mason and Meyla serve would only the standard minimum of three months field duty each year, usually during harvest. That was a requirement that I was exempted from, in my Capitol-established position. Mason never complained, accepting the hardship as a simple fact of life in District 11. When he was fifteen or so, I noticed that his hands had become scarred from the work, altogether neither surprising nor uncommon. There aren't enough gloves provided for all the workers. Why provide that many pairs of gloves when a third of the district will only need them for a quarter of the year?

It never bothered me to see anyone else's hands scarred from the forced labor. The savage, humiliatingly public thrashing of anyone who stole food from the harvest bothered me far more. Yet when I noticed the blemishes cut against Mason's soft skin, I reviled the lifestyle the Peacekeepers subject us to!

Mason went about his required chores never slacking. He enjoyed the music in the fields although he was cursed with his father's tone-deficiency. Mason could hit notes only marginally better than his old man, and they weren't the smoothest notes. The scars thrashed my stomach, though.

I had tried to put away the strange sense, but Mason's hands were always nearby, helping me work on the Justice Building's framework. We used gloves there, though even those gloves weren't family property. They were different from agriculture gloves and would have been noticed by the Peacekeepers. No matter what I did, I couldn't wrest away the disconcertion of seeing my son scarred physically.

Meyla already had scars when I met her, even a jagged grind on her left forearm from a branch that had broken above her, jutting across her skin. Mason was untarnished by the flaws of this life. Scars from work really aren't that big a deal. It was a mental abuse for me, knowing that each blemish could have been avoided.

Everything about the Capitol's dealings with the rest of Panem is psychological. Every Hunger Games season initiates during a school morning, the one day out of the year where absence is not tolerated whatsoever. The Capitol prefers the kids to be away from their families, witnessing the butchery of the bloodbath, isolated from the comfort of parents. It's traumatizing, and most of us grow up severely cowed by what we see at so young an age.

The Capitol even constructed the rules for the Peacekeepers in order to keep heavy antagonism between their police force and the peoples they are policing. Peacekeepers are not permitted to marry unless they are officers and receive permission from the Capitol. Enlistees are not even permitted romantic interests at all, though a number are flogged each year for letting their natural instinct override adherence to Capitol will.

Enlistees are also assigned to a given district for only two or three years at a time, never really forming any kinship with the locals during their entire twenty-year term. Officers typically are assigned to a given location longer, but their jobs are more sequestered from the people. The resulting Peacekeepers are enormously frustrated groups of men endowed with power and an unstated agreement between each other that rules good conduct only apply to district residents.

Murder, Jura Penrose, Volente Covas, and the Capitol's absolute reign over our lives, stealing away my precious niece and pitching her into a vast pen with other kids who have been perverted to a revolting malevolence. For the most part, victors are deplorable when they leave the arena. If the psychosis wears down over time, some of them regain some level of humanity.

Given that, I wasn't altogether surprised to see a drunken mentor on Reaping night, and I can't say I blame the guy for drowning himself in booze. If I had to coach two kids each year, trying my hardest to keep them alive, only to see both eviscerated, year after year-

"Honey?" Meyla's sweet voice culls my thoughts and drags me back to the kitchen. I'm glaring, and when I straighten up my back, my shoulders shiver. "Are you okay, Kip?"

My sister and her husband are staring at me along with my wife. I turn away and shake my head, "Sorry, I'm just... having trouble with all this." My head swirls with fury. "Hey, I'm gonna go run those errands, ok? I'll be back in a while."

Meyla nods and opens her arms to hug me, but I'm already past, abiding the knot in my gut to ignore her renewed compassion. That's bad, I think to myself once out on the street walking toward the center of Three Corners. She's finally able to open up her heart again and you brush her off like a scarf! My conscience nags me until I mutter out loud to answer the thoughts. "You've got your own situation, Kip. You're not supposed to be grieving. You're preparing."

I know Meyla's offer is still worth accepting. For now, I will not let it get in my way. Comfort may have helped months ago. Right now, something more effective is necessary. Nothing will suffice emotionally, except seizing an opportunity to strike back. Scipio need only give a word! Elusive as the old fellow has been, I still trust him for the most part.

The Justice Building looms ahead, like a horrendous monster, dark and foreboding. I haven't come back to the plaza since the Reaping. Sooner or later I'll have to continue working or else I'll have lashes on my own back to add to my list of grievances. I saunter past the Hammock, a restraint device erected next to a tree; walk up the broad stone staircase that I swear is still stained with Mason's blood, and stride into the Building.

I'm familiar with the layout, quickly finding the sign that reads Office of the Reaping. A young man behind the counter asks if he can help me, voice spirited with irritating exuberance. "I'd like to donate to Rue Amaranth's sponsorship."

"Certainly, sir." At least the guy is polite. I don't know how anyone who just escaped the annual reaping could possibly work in this office. He fishes beneath the counter retrieving a copy of a printed page.

I fill in the appropriate boxes: tribute name and gender, donor name, amount, time and date, and sign here.

The attendant looks at the paper and his eyes widen slightly. "That's very generous. Are you related?"

"Uncle."

"Ah, well, good luck to your niece then, Mr. Silvernale. Yeah, usually the gamblers here don't have nearly this sort of money to pad the odds in their favor." He sits down and begins scrawling on another piece of paper. His banter annoys me, the callousness of it; holding regard for Rue on the one hand and casually shrugging off of her humanity on the other. I choose not to reply and the attendant finishes in silence.

He stamps the new page and slides it across the table to me. "This is your redemption receipt. Please retain it."

Setting the money down, I scan the sheet. It's essentially a copy of the other paper, with a serial number scrawled into one box. "What's this for?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Let me explain. Donations are consumed at the mentor's discretion, with sponsorships being expended in order of their donation. In event that funds are not allocated to the tribute during the Games, you can use that slip to redeem back a portion of your sponsorship, subtracting some nominal fees."

"You mean if Rue dies."

Leaning back in his chair, the attendant doesn't hesitate a bit, or show the slightest discomfort. "Not necessarily. If she wins and funds are not consumed you will be remitted whatever portion isn't consumed by the Capitol's exchange costs. See, they make the money available to the mentors immediately after processing the paperwork over the telephone, so some of it is lost in the expenses of processing." This kid seems proud to know all this. It might be interesting if Rue wasn't alone, hiding in a tree, waiting for someone to gut her.

"Whatever."

I fold the paper and slip it into my pocket, the young man drones ever on. "They'll probably use the actual cash to help balance the debits and credits between the bank here and in the Capitol." He taps his hands on the counter in some offbeat of rhythm. No scars.

The bank in District 11 is a joke. No one trusts it except Peacekeepers, and if anyone did, residents don't have any money to save anyhow. My mind mulls as I turn to walk away, suddenly turning back. "Let me ask you something. Where did you grow up?"

"District Three. I went to the University in the Capitol, though. I'm working here for a few years until I can get cleared to apply for the Capitol." He grins broadly.

I nod and move away, back out into the broad entryway. Figures. The kid _wants_ to be a part of the Capitol. Through the huge front doors and halfway down the stairs someone calls my name. "Kip!" At the base of the stairs Volente Covas is waiting, waving.

I don't need this, not today. Don't really have much of a choice though. I steel myself as best I can and reach out my hand to meet his. The shake is cold, if firm and gruff. "I was just out for a walk around the plaza and saw you leaving."

"Yeah,"

Covas puts a hand on my shoulder and guides our walk. "Hey, listen, I heard your niece is a tribute this year." He looks for my affirmative nod. "Well, that's just plain strange, having a twelve year old selected like that."

"A twelve year old was selected in District Twelve, too, you know."

"Sure, but that's District Twelve. We're in District Eleven."

No, you're not from District Eleven, I nearly reply.

Covas lowers his voice. "How's your sister doing?"

My sister? "The best she can."

"Marvelous," Covas chuckles. "Seriously, though. We were supposed to have dinner sometime. Did you forget to get back to me?"

No, but I'll get back _at_ you "It's just been so busy, you know, with the Games and everything-"

"Oh, I do understand. What shall we say then? Next Tuesday afternoon, we meet in the plaza? That should give you some time to square everything away."

Next Tuesday is fully a week away so I say that would be fine. Covas bids farewell and heads away toward the Main Office. My composure loosens with every step I put between his duplicitous presence and myself.

Scipio should be proud of me today. Every opportunity has presented itself for a potential outburst of honest, justifiable rage, and fresh wrath, not the festering spite of Mason's murder. Still, I've held my tongue better than I have expected to. I was sure Covas would notice the awkwardness, the lack of confidence in my gait; each leg feeling like it's trying to push aside a rushing current and plant between slimy rocks in a riverbed.

He didn't seem to take any hint. Maybe he's oblivious, too high up the food chain to deal with nuances anymore. Probably not. He's an investigator, after all. More likely, it's all part of his twisted game, his satisfaction in watching people squirm under the boot heel of the Capitol. Every time we speak, he just loves being that heel, torquing. He just refuses to leave me alone! When I wanted him to investigate Jura Penrose he tacitly ignored me. Now, he can't get enough of my attention.

I skirt down a side alley, nearly home, debating whether or not I'm feeling up to facing my wife and my sister's family who are probably still there., though it will soon be time for the Amaranth kids to leave school, no doubt disturbed from the footage of the bloodbath.

My numbed feet choose an aimless path, wandering from street to street, block to block, working off steam. I'll go home in an hour or so and maybe Meyla won't bring up the morning's events, or the afternoon's discussions. I will have to bring up the dinner, but that's not till Tuesday. I just don't feel like talking about the fuel that's feeding my inner fire. I feel like using that fire, putting it into play.


	8. Chapter 8

8

Embers of orange from the receding sun creep into the windows. The house is quiet. Mom and I eat in silence, choking down a few spoonfuls of stew. It tastes salty and settles sickeningly in the stomach. I can't get much of the chewy grain bread down either.

It's hard to move. My limbs throb with starvation, and still my appetite just refuses to quell this depression. I just want to stay home from school till it's over, unable to process the tormenting of my sister, forced to observe and endure it publicly. Being in public hasn't been my strongest suit lately.

A few days ago, I woke up in the school nurses office to dizzying assurances that Katniss had escaped the thrown blade, though she remained in the arena. Since then, I've watched her nearly thirst to death, only discovering water after certain heat stroke set in. Once she was rehydrated by a natural spring, the Gamemakers' drove her in a mad dash through the forest with a real firestorm. Given my sister's fire outfits; it was surely supposed to be a demented irony.

It should have been me in the arena all along.

More surprising than the tricks of the environment, Peeta had allied with the Career tributes, the ones who volunteer for the Games. He must have had some prearranged deal where he would help them track down and kill my sister, the highest rated tribute. Katniss knows of his betrayal though, because the group of them wandered right by the tree she was nestled in for the first night and she definitely noticed. The telling grin on her face when she climbed down the next morning insisted so. Katniss has received a lot of airtime.

Why would Peeta say that he was in love with Katniss but then join the most dangerous tributes and hunt her? Peeta already showed he was capable of killing other tributes. He had finished off a girl from District 8 that several other tributes wounded. It was confounding until I the rumors spreading around. Apparently, Peeta's fixation with my sister is stronger than a mere crush. He's protecting her by nesting with the lions in the arena.

Today, chores finished, Mom and I sit down in front of the tiny television. Verona, the girl from District 5, is putting the finishing touches on an ingenious crawlspace among a tangle of vines and bushes. Without watching Verona, I would think it impossible that anyone would hide in the mess. If she has one talent, it's problem solving.

She's not very interesting, though. Agreeing, the transmission jumps over to a boy from District 3, Teodor, who has spent the past few days digging up the landmines around each of the platforms. He reburied them around the supplies which the Careers had stacked near the lake. A time-lapse shot sped up to a dizzying rate shows the boy's inventive, hours-long effort in handful of seconds. I don't know if they can be rearmed but if the Gamemakers are replaying this compilation so many times, they must think he has managed that as well. No other tributes ever thought to retrieve the mines. Now, they stand guard, permitting the Careers to leave their supplies while hunting.

Katniss is a born scavenger. She probably won't need any of the provisions, although weapons would help. She only has the throwing knife since it stuck in her backpack. The frame splits into two shots. On the left side of the screen, the Careers and Peeta slowly stalk through the woods. Simultaneously, on the other side of the image, a shot displays Katniss exhausted and dozing after washing the burns she suffered fleeing the firestorm. I can see the Gamemakers slapping each other's backs and laughing, 'The girl on fire can burn after all!'

Even scalded, fatigued, and malnourished, Katniss is beautiful. The shot tightens on her and fills the right-side view. I can see the pin more clearly, now. Gale said it was a mockingjay and he told me the story about them that Dad used to tell us.

During the Dark Days, Capitol scientists took animals and spliced genes into their DNA to make them useful weapons, tools of war. They made all sorts of killer animals, but the ones that are still prevalent are the wasps called tracker jackers, whose sting can cause severe swelling and even psychosis. Ten stings are almost guaranteed to kill a fully grown human, and even if it doesn't kill him, the delusions are enough to drive him insane permanently.

However, the Capitol was more cunning with a new bird they created that became known as the 'Jabberjay'. The birds were capable of reproducing human speech with legendary exactness, even capable of mimicking vocal qualities unique to each person. The Capitol released thousands of the birds, exclusively of one gender to prevent breeding. The birds would listen to whole conversations between members of the rebellion and fly back to regurgitate their secrets to the Capitol's intelligence corps.

It was only a matter of time before the odd birds were noticed. Soon the rebels used them to feed fictitious plans and misinformation to the intelligence corps, frustrating and embarrassing the Capitol, who promptly canceled the Jabberjay program, keeping whatever birds that had returned. But some of the Jabberjays mated with wild mocking birds forming a new animal that hadn't existed before; the mockingjay. Even though mockingjays can't reproduce words, they love melodies and will sing any human song they like for hours, even long, complex pieces.

Gale says there are mockingjays all around District 12, as abundantly as any other bird. He also said that the pin with the mockingjay is something that Madge was wearing on Reaping Day. She must have given it to my sister before Katniss and Peeta left for the Capitol. The broadcasts attribute the unique adornment to Cinna, since he was "earth-shattering" in his designs for Katinss' fiery wardrobe. Apparently, the pin was becoming a trendy fashion statement and Cinna was currently the standard of all benchmarks in fashion. He is frequently mentioned with hail and praise whenever the 'girl on fire' costume is discussed.

On the screen, the image cuts away to the girl from District 11, her wispy form nearly like that of a bird, herself. She dances from branch to branch, only touching the ground when she prefers to. The cameras have found it quite a challenge tracking her passage around the forest. Right now, she's watching Katniss and I wonder if this tiny girl has the desperation in her to kill my sleeping sister.

I search my own heart, knowing there won't be any answers to find. There was no time to think about it when I was selected in the reaping, but since then I've wondered if I could kill someone. The truth is, I don't know. I doubt if I could. Katniss took that burden up for me. She hasn't killed anyone yet, spending the entire time looking for provisions or fleeing fire and the other tributes.

The label on the littler girl displays her name, Rue. She hops from one branch to the next, moving around the tree tops, looking between Katniss and a point elsewhere in the woods. The careers are still stalking. Then I understand.

Rue isn't thinking of killing Katniss. She's watching the Careers and Peeta as they close in on my sister's napping form. I didn't realize how close they were until now. My heart sinks and I huddle close to Mom, fearing this may be it for my sister, Katniss, who loved me enough to give away her life. Mom leans her head upon mine and whispers, "I know, Prim. I know." She's crying already.

Then something happens that I don't expect. Rue hops down to a lower branch and kicks it, shaking the leaves. The second shot cuts back to the close up of Katniss' face. She's already stirring, but the thrashing of leaves jolts her eyes open. She can hear the voices now; hear the Careers' snapping of twigs underfoot. Rue shakes the branch once more.

Katniss doesn't hesitate any longer. She scoops up her backpack and tears off in the direction opposite the approaching pack. As soon as the Careers spot her, they break into chase and little Rue flitters away into the branches, unnoticed. Again, her movements are too swift and clever for the cameras to follow, even aided by the tracker installed under each tribute's skin.

The action is after my sister now. Mom's hand and mine compete, knuckles white from squeezing all the blood out of our skin. On the screen, Katniss runs swiftly in the evening that falls a few hours after ours. She finds a tall tree and swings up into it, her teeth gnashing from the pain of burns on her palms.

By the time the Careers approach the tree, she's a several branches further up, outside of spear range, panic brushing her eyebrows. Then she smiles at the six tributes that have her trapped. "How's everything with you?" Her voice is suddenly carefree, like she just loves the games.

"Well, enough. Yourself?" One of the boys replies, his voice shockingly more adult than the age limitations ought to permit. That huge man from District 11 had a deeper voice though, so my mind is probably just searching for reasons to invalidate what it's being presented with.

Katniss teases them, "It's been a bit warm for my taste." She tilts her head cutely. "The air's better up here. Why don't you come on up?"

"Think I will." The label pointing to the adult/boy reads "2-B, Cato" an enormous career. And half crazed with intensity.

1-G, Glimmer offers something to Cato and the broadcast switches to another camera so it can be seen, a silver bow and arrow. My anxiety churns. If only Katniss had that and not them! Cato rejects the offer and insists he's a swordsman, tucking a long dagger tighter into his belt, where it has been secured.

He starts climbing after Katniss who moves higher into the branches until the short trees fall away and the screen is graced with a beautiful panorama. The passionate glow of the sun on the horizon blazes over the trees, like a golden inferno. Only a few trees near Katniss are higher than this and she stops climbing for a moment to glance down when Cato breaks a branch and plummets. He crashes through foliage howling words we don't use in the Everdeen house.

Mom and I allow ourselves to grin. By now Katniss is in the top third of the tree, on branches that don't look like they should be able to hold her slim form. Glimmer draws an arrow and it goes far wide of my sister. Katniss doesn't even flinch. The second silver shaft thunks into the trunk of the tree and a third misses worse than the first. Katniss pulls out the arrow and waves it, grinning. Glimmer gives up, spitting. Katniss is better than Glimmer with a bow. She's stuck in a tree though. There's no way out of this.

The Careers group up with Peeta and argue about how to take out this year's highest rated Hunger Games tribute. They have her cornered in the sky and they're not going to let this opportunity sweep past. None of them have a viable plan so Peeta suggests that they deal with it in the morning, because the light is failing and she can't escape if they make camp at the base of the tree. He knows he can't delay confrontation forever.

Katniss watches them settle in and shimmy's down to thicker branches, wincing with each grip. She picks a spot and prepares nightfall by withdrawing a sleeping bag from her backpack and crawling inside. She loops her belt around herself and the forked branch to prevent falling. The burn on her leg must be unbearable because she cuts a sliver in the bag and dangles her tender limb out in the air. There's some relief when she pours water on it, but burn pain returns immediately without actual pain killers. Her scowl darkens with the failing light and her jaw quivers.

Once lying back, she crams her backpack into the sleeping bag. Katniss takes in her surroundings. The light is fast dwindling, only those faint orange embers glowing pinkish through the green leaves. Then Katniss sees something in an adjacent tree. She stares intently, sitting up, silently.

At last, the Gamemakers switch to night mode. The light amplified shot exposes little Rue who warned my sister, her approach ignored by even the Gamemakers. Perhaps they see her as so elusive that she wasn't worth showing. But now Rue points to something above Katniss.

After a moment of confused staring, Katniss seems to understand. "What's she see, Mom?"

"I- I don't know, dear. It all looks the same to me."

Katniss seems to quickly make a decision. She crawls out of the bag and scampers up the branches faster than before. She takes a knife, the same knife that I thought had killed her and sets it against a branch. Then when the nightly Panem Anthem plays for the recap of any killed tributes that night, Katniss begins carving away on the branch, serrations in the blade making quick work of the moist wood. The broadcast finishes before she does and Katniss resigns back to her sleeping bag.

"I'm confused," Mom furrows her eyebrows. "What was she doing?"

"I have no idea." There must be a lot about the wild that we fenced-ins don't know about.

When Katniss gets back down to her perch, there's a sponsor's gift parachuted onto her sleeping bag, a tiny metal jar. She opens it and dabs her finger inside. Her jaws drops open and she whispers something, cradling the jar to her chest with joy. From inside the container, she applies a creamy ointment to her burns and moans gently in relief.

"That's expensive." I say, knowing that we can't afford any burn medicine quite so luxurious in our apothecary shop.

"Very, and the cost is probably some multiple to gift it in the Games," Mom agrees. "At least she has a lot of sponsors. I guess we can thank Peeta and Cinna for that."

"They like Katniss too, though. She got an eleven remember?"

Mom squeezes me. "Katniss is wonderful, isn't she?"

That leaves me feeling hollow inside again, not the sort of hollow that you feel when you can't get enough to eat. The kind when you want things to be different than they are and can't do anything about it. I didn't want to lose Katniss. I also didn't want to go to the Hunger Games. I tuck my feet onto the couch beside myself, trying to satisfy the wrench in my stomach by curling up.

You can't volunteer for someone who volunteered for you. It's a struggle deciding which is worse, to go myself and be dead already or to lose Katniss and have to live the rest of my life knowing that she died because of me. And I feel bad about thinking this feels worse than being in Katniss' place. I hate that this is all my fault.

But that's not true. She's stuck in a tree, alone, burned, terrified, drained, and feeling betrayed because the Capitol said one of us had to go. The Treaty of Treason is to blame!

Mom stands up to get some water and I stare entranced at the screen where they're showing shots of the tributes settling in for another night made artificially chilly by the Gamemakers. The boy from 3 has traversed a careful path inside the network of landmines, huddling under a stack of blankets for the night. Thresh from 11 is oblivious to the weather, sleeping sprawled under the tall, dry grasses of the sweeping meadow, impossible to see even ten yards away.

Then they return to the Careers, who have worked out a watch schedule. Peeta wasn't trusted with having a shift, given his profession of love for their prey, but he's awake anyway. His eyes stare distress in the camera's light-amplified image. His frown is contorted into hopelessness, dread, and sadness. Once they kill Katniss, they're going to kill him next and then what good will his efforts have been? The Gamemakers hold the shot of Peeta. Peeta stares back unblinking.

Mom and I try to get some sleep, taking turns comforting each other. We won't rest much tonight. Not with the Katniss, whom we've depended on for so long, in such a dire circumstance. An hour or so before dawn, we get up and look at the television. Nothing has changed except for which career has a waking shift. Glimmer, the girl from District 1, keeps nodding off. Peeta is still wide awake though, the same expression of worry plastered across his face.

I milk Lady and help mom clean the house and once the sun peeks over the horizon, I make my way to school. The electricity has been on for a few days now and everyone is keeping every light blazing, because we so rarely have power. The Seam is almost festive with dazzling lights, soon to be drowned out by the intensifying glow of morning.

My mind hardly acknowledges this environment until the second class when the televisions are turned on. The normal replay of the events from the last 24 hours should be up, except the Gamemakers have opted to skip that for now. Light is slowly beginning to wash out the darkness in the west. Katniss is applying more ointment to her burns, reddish spots already look fading. I'm astounded. If we had medicine like that in the apothecary shop, lives would literally be saved every year.

Katniss stows the sleeping bag into her backpack and eats a few morsels of rations, washing down the cracker and beef with purified water. She peers down at the Careers nestled at the base of the tree. Glimmer is fast asleep and so is everyone else, except Peeta, and he's not looking upward. Katniss still thinks he betrayed her.

Katniss whispers as loud as she dares, "Rue!" The tiny girl peeks out, alert as ever. Katniss brandishes her knife to the girl, not menacingly, rather in a sawing motion. Rue nods with understanding and heads away, bounding from branch to branch. Rue wasn't kidding when she said she's hard to catch. The cameras struggle to keep up with her until the Gamemakers decide her forest acrobatics aren't that important.

The shot shifts back to Katniss as she climbs back upward, to the branch she already gnawed away at with the blade. In the approaching gleam of morning, I can finally comprehend what the fuss is all about. A tracker jacker nest dangles from the branch; the distinct solid-gold bodies of the wasps are infamous in Panem, unmistakable.

Once Katniss begins to cut the branch the rest of the way, a few Tracker Jackers land on her, she flinches from the stings. Other kids in the class openly marvel at her bravery. A moment later, the branch snaps free and Katniss shoves it out from the trunk. Ages pass as it crashes to the ground, but when it does the results are exhilarating!

A swarm of tracker jackers erupt from the crushed nest! Pandemonium instantly overcomes the confused careers, trying to blink away fatigue, but only a few, including Peeta, have the enough sense to flee. The cameras follow their mindless flight through the forest, someone screaming, "To the lake!" over and over. My hands clench the edge of my desk. Other kids clap with excitement.

I want to see if Katniss is alright. The Careers howl frantically at the tracker jackers, swatting themselves. Glimmer slows her run and tries to beat the wasps out of the air with the bow. Bad move! She's overcome by venom almost immediately, crumpling to the ground, convulsing. A girl from District 4 stumbles slower and slower until she too finally collapses in a fit of seizures.

A split-screen finally opens up showing Katniss halfway down the tree and descending swiftly. The careers are in the other half of the image, more crazed with each sting. Katniss stumbles back the way she had fled the day before, back to the spring. She submerges herself momentarily, dazed, the delirious effects of tracker jacker poison filtering through her veins.

She examines the stings and I can see she's already pulled out the stingers, but the sites are swollen and leaking green pus. Katniss sits panting, but then her eyes snap open and she drags her uncooperative body to her feet. Faltering back through the brush, she reaches Glimmer just as the girl's implant notifies the Gamemakers that she has died, an indicator flashing up on the screen.

Glimmer had been gorgeous in the interviews. I remember her now that her body is a disfigured mass of green lesions. Katniss was only more captivating because she is my sister, and I guess, because Peeta drew attention to her with his forlorn affection. It's horrid what has become of Glimmer's body, now unrecognizable; a revolting pile of already rancid flesh. Katniss wastes no time and crushes the dead, swollen fingers with a rock until the bow comes loose and then she turns to the quiver of arrows.

Katniss tries to roll over the corpse, confusion from the stings plaguing her mind. In the second shot, I can see Peeta returning, brandishing a sword, Cato following about fifty or so yards behind him. "Go, Katniss. Run!" My whisper escapes my lips. Alabeth puts a hand on my desk, not say anything. What could she say? I'm watching my sister live every Panem kid's worst nightmare, all for me.

Katniss has one arrow and that's something. Peeta's almost back and there's no telling what he might do, his emotional fragility further taxed under the madness of tracker jacker venom. Finally Glimmer's body rolls over, my sister growls commands to herself. Katniss looks to the sky and sees something, maybe a phantom; the shot doesn't follow her view. She tugs at the quiver. Her breath comes in short gasps, her movements jerky.

When she frees it at last, she doesn't have a chance to vacate the area. She grabs the extra arrow and blinks her eyes, attempting to purge the cloud of psychotic poison from her view. The arrow slips as she tries to draw in preparation to fire. Despair and panic settle in as she stares confusedly at the bow.

Peeta bursts into the clearing, spear at the ready, the two camera shots resolving into one large image. "What are you still doing here?" Peeta roars at Katniss and I want to jump up and down, nearly falling out of my seat. It's true then! He does love her!

Katniss is slow to comprehend. She stares at Peeta as if he's not real. Peeta turns the blunt end of the spear and pokes Katniss, "Are you mad? Get up! Get up!" She finally complies with his commands. "Run! Run!" Peeta is still screaming at Katniss' unsteady gait when Cato jumps into the open, also unsure on his feet, the poison taking a deeper toll now.

It doesn't matter. Cato knows that Peeta has just helped Katniss escape. Peeta wheels around turning the spear to stab Cato. Unfortunately, the boy from District 2 is far more adept with weaponry and swings his short sword in a mighty arc snapping the shaft of Peeta's spear in two. Cato's blade sinks deep into the front of Peeta's left thigh! My arms tense against the desk.

Cato falls over, momentum from the swing dragging him off balance. Peeta drops the broken spear and grabs his leg, as he stumbles onto his good knee. Cato tries to push himself up off the ground, but Peeta punches him in the side of the head; the noise of the impact thunders in the classroom! All the students are cheering, even me. Now, everyone respects Peeta's selflessness. Katniss sacrificed herself for me and Peeta is willing to sacrifice himself for her. How could both tributes from District 12 be such generous people in the same year?

Cato regains his knees, while Peeta limps in circles around the Career. Cato lunges for him but misjudges. Peeta misjudges his own counter attack and both tributes fall dazed to the ground, Peeta's blood flows freely onto the pine-needle sod.

They continue to struggle, though neither of them has very much presence of mind any longer. Cato dropped his sword and can't locate it. Peeta's leg bothers him less and less, physical detachment an affect of the stings. He's losing blood fast and Cato is only stung and bruised. They hear more tributes crashing through the woods, two other Careers returning, brandishing their weapons and staggering as tracker jackers continue to harass them.

Cato grins insanely at Peeta and lunges once more. This time Peeta connects fully, his fist blasting Cato's cheek, the larger boy drops to the ground fully unconscious. Out of my seat, I'm hopping up and down, my voice joining in the squeals of excitement from the other kids. Alabeth and I embrace as the classroom cheers for the baker's son. Peeta looks at Cato, searching his own belt for a knife, to finish off the larger tribute. He is too overwhelmed by delusion to find a weapon.

Peeta turns, tucks his head down and runs headlong into the forest away from the Careers, along a different path than Katniss, creating a path actually, for the first few minutes of his flight. Peeta breaks through bushes and low-hanging branches, finally settling into a path as he continues running, the limp worsening now with each yard, both of his legs completely stained with blood.

I've seen wounds that bad before. They have to be cleaned thoroughly, properly, and regularly; or else infection is sure to set in, a common killer in the arena. The split-screen image shows the two careers attempting to revive Cato, with no luck. They each grab an arm and drag him arduously over the forest floor. To District 12's delight, the golden wasps still harass the trio.

Where's Katniss? When they finally show her, she's curled up in a fetal position in a pit of dead leaves, bow and quiver lying beside her. "Oh no," my voice creaks and Alabeth helps settle me into my chair. "No, no. Not today, Katniss," I whisper.

My sister doesn't respond; she just shivers in nightmares from the poison. Was she stung too many times to survive? Katniss was right near the nest when she sawed it out of the tree, tracker jackers stinging her even before it fell.

They couldn't have been regular wasps, just enough of a nuisance to drive the Careers away and allow Katniss the chance to escape. They had to be this hatefully toxic breed that the Capitol is incessantly proud of. Katniss shudders again, on the screen. Her eyes flutter open showing only whites.

Even our instructor was cheering, but now he tells the kids to sit down. Once the Gamemakers are sure nothing more that will happen soon, they run the replay of yesterday's events which comprise a handful of inactive moments with each tribute, the pursuit of Katniss, and wraps up with the events we just witnessed. Some of the shots are different, showing better angles of the events. Surely the citizens in the Capitol are just happy as they can be this morning, watching this carnage again while they shovel enormous breakfasts into their gullets.

After the replay, the instructor decides to leave the television on for a while longer, for my sake. He has a few kids of his own who will be in the reaping in a few years and I guess he feels sorry for me, even if that's not something we're permitted to say out loud.

Katniss shakes on the screen, moaning faintly. It might be my imagination that some of her panting sounds like my name. Then the camera slowly pans upward into a tree. Nestled on a branch, watching my sister, the little girl who has helped her twice, Rue watches intently; almost gets the urge to climb down from the tree, but then she settles back, unsure of what to do. If she goes to help Katniss there's a chance that Katniss would panic and kill her rather than accept whatever protection and assistance the petite tribute could offer.

Rue, The other twelve year old selected this year, the one who had no volunteer to take her place. Why was she helping Katniss? Because Katniss' eleven score means she can kill the Careers and then Rue only has to deal with the other tributes?

No, that's not it. There's something in her eyes as she gazes at my sister. Respect, not for the score assigned to my sister. I know what it is. Rue respects Katniss because she knows my sister volunteered for me. That's so rare in most of the districts that it is certainly a topic for discussion during the Hunger Games.

These events are about division. Dividing the people of our nation, but the citizens of Panem respect and honor those who give of themselves. That was why District 12 saluted Katniss in its unique way. That's why Rue is helping Katniss, now. She respects my sister's choices.

That is the unsung kinship between the districts who can't even communicate effectively between each other. Our lives, our plights are the same. We suffer under the same cruel system that hobbles our efforts to make life tolerable and punishes us arbitrarily. The little girl on the screen understands that too. The two of us understand that more than ever.


	9. Chapter 9

9

The crawler eases its way up the fifth pillar. It's Sunday, which means most of the Peacekeepers are out of the building, finding things to do with the districts' only day off from work and school. This morning as I walked into the plaza, people were huddled around the screens. Curious myself, I decided to see what has become of that girl, Katniss. The replays cover days old events, because little has happened since Katniss dropped the tracker jacker nest. Indeed, Katniss is still unconscious as are the Career tributes.

I have a lot of time to wonder about Rue's situation, even though I could work on my portable system to analyze the data I have already gleaned from these pillars. The Games are too distracting. It's been five days since the bloodbath. Fourteen tributes have died, leaving only ten.

Rue is elusive, sure. Yet, I didn't expect her to last this long. I still don't dare to think that she has a chance to win the Games. The surviving tributes are Careers, Thresh, the wounded boy from 12, Katniss, and some other kids. I can't remember them all. There's just no way that I can imagine Rue surviving the Games, unless the Gamemakers flood the entire arena as they did several years past. Rue can climb higher than anyone else. Katniss demonstrated on Cato the dangers of climbing higher than the branches will tolerate.

There's no weight division for tributes. That would be too logical, I grunt sourly to myself. Where is the entertainment value in having a seventeen-year-old murder someone half his weight? Incomprehensible! For me, the Treaty of Treason isn't about the districts' historic uprisings so much as it is the Capitol's utter betrayal of humanity.

Maybe the only way that the citizens of the Capitol can justify this devaluation of human life is by having it constantly portrayed and propagandized as pleasant sport, including the false appreciation enforced upon the districts. Perhaps that was what Scipio sought to undermine. I still didn't see anything terribly unusual on the screen. Just the normal wanton slaughter.

Once the crawler reaches the top of the pillar, it begins a faster roll downward. I toss the cable outward toward the next pillar as it curls up on the stone floor. After the device reaches the ground, I replace the memory card with a fresh chip and take the apparatus down into two halves. Once reassembled, it begins climbing the sixth pillar.

All that separates the Capitol from the majority of Panem is participation in the Hunger Games. The Capitol doesn't participate except to host the festivities each year. Other than that, they are mere spectators. At least the three districts that see the Hunger Games as laudable pursuits participate and lose at least one volunteer per year.

While I can't comprehend their acceptance of the Games, their attitude is at least honest. They participate happily, because the only alternative is to participate unhappily, like the rest of us. It's a mark of depravity to happily send your child to die, but perhaps not so worthy of criticism as sending two dozen of other people's children to die, merely for your pleasure and power.

I sigh and copy the information from the memory card to my computer and glance at it, making sure the diagnostic readings show that the information is good. I shuffle through a few screens showing scraggly lines. The technical readouts are what I prefer, although the computer can compile them into a comprehensive 3d image, showing potential weaknesses and fractures. That can be useful for stress-over-time-testing.

This pillar is like the other four. No serious damage, but some abnormal pressures near the top where the joints rest in the hub. If this is all there is in each of the twelve pillars, the Main Office should be fine, perhaps only needing small repairs for the roof. Sure, it will eventually fall. All structures do. However, the metal in the superstructure will rust out completely several centuries before the pillars would fail. There is some stress damage. It's just not enough to amount to anything more than mere data on my reports.

Sunday. I still haven't told Meyla about the dinner on Tuesday. She knows what I think of Volente Covas although she only met him once. One doesn't simply blow off an invitation/command to eat with a Captain of the Peacekeepers. Still, every subconscious urge in me screams to find some reason to cancel. What if Hannah's kids come down with illness and the family needs help caring for them, during the trial of the Games? That might work.

Still it's a bad idea, especially considering that Covas seems to be generating a deeper interest in me. If he had taken even a fraction of this concern for Mason... I replay the what-ifs in my head over and over. Nothing new this time. Sometimes a new scenario presents itself in my mind's eye. Not today. Just the same old gully of spite; Penrose and Covas.

After scanning two more pillars, I decide it's time to call it a night and pack up my gear. The batteries need to be charged anyway. This job is lonely, being ignored by every single passing Peacekeeper. That's fine, but my emotionally charged thoughts are giving me a headache and I can barely see colors as a result.

Halfway home, gear heavy on my back, Scipio meets me in the street. This hasn't happened since he recruited me. "Hi, Kip. How are you doing?"

"Fine, Scipio. What's on your mind?" We head toward my house a few blocks away.

"I've received word that you're going to have a sit-down with Captain Covas, soon."

I shoot him an alarmed glance. "What, you have someone in the Peacekeepers?"

"We have several Peacekeepers helping us, Kip. You know that."

I shrug my burdened shoulders. "Well, yeah, we have a dinner scheduled. I'm thinking about canceling though."

Scipio lets the breeze own the moment. Sometimes he hopes people see the flaws in their own words. I just don't want to acknowledge them. "It's not a dinner. It's a sit-down."

I stop short and turn to Scipio. "What do you mean? What's the difference?"

Scipio drops his voice to a hushed growl, "Word is getting around the District that you've got a chip on your shoulder-"

"You think I don't?"

Scipio waves his hand. "That's not the point. The Peacekeepers are gunning for any surreptitious associations. If you don't meet with Covas, you'll be pegged. You can't avoid this. He's feeling you out." His eyes are icy, beard quirking with each crunching, whispered word.

I stand there thinking, wondering whether my own time is going to be up soon, whether my wife or my sister or their kids will bear the cost of my choices. I can't allow that. "What do I have to do?"

Scipio takes my arm and we continue down the lonely street. "Just meet with him. Be civil and you'll be alright. Trust me." We make a final turn. "And Kip? If you're tagged a suspect, you can't have any contact with anyone in the movement and you can't visit the safe house. If I have to, I'll sacrifice one man to protect the cause, even myself. Do you understand?"

"I guess so." My voice struggles, quiet and slow. I'm playing chess against the whole world! My opponents are the barbarous Peacekeepers and their alter ego rebels who seem to want never to rebel, never to stand up.

Scipio leaves and I watch him go down an alley before I head into my house. Meyla isn't home. My bag thumps to the floor of the hall closet and my attention immediately turns to the cupboard. Meyla always keeps tea prepared because we've both grown accustomed to it. The best drink that isn't expensive.

I thumb the button on the television and sit on the couch. The tea is room temperature, of course. Pretty much everything we drink is lukewarm. In the Capitol we drank refrigerated water and milk. It was awkward every time, the chilling sensation against the throat and in the chest.

The screen shows relative inactivity in a live picture-in-picture screen in one corner. The rest of the image is filled with various replays of the action this year so far: the melee at the cornucopia, two boys fighting almost drunkenly in the woods, Katniss' marathon flight from the fire, Peeta slashing a wounded tribute in the night, and so forth.

Nothing is going on at all. The smaller image zips to Rue. My insides squirm. She's foraging berries from some bushes, actually on the ground. Come to think of it, in all the time I have watched the Games so far this year, she's spent almost all of it up in trees. That's been a safe strategy so far.

Scipio's words echo back to me. "If you're tagged as a suspect, you can't have any contact with anyone in the movement," almost a threat, really. The underground will treat me as much a threat as any Capitol loyalist, if I don't comply with the Peacekeeper's combing search for the underground itself? Scipio never told me to lie about my involvement to Covas, since that goes without saying.

Who did he have that could know that I'm being singled out for investigation, anyway? It would have to be an officer that had some level of access to Covas' work. Is there someone working in the Main Office that I can trust? I ponder this over another gulp of tea, but the numerous faces and names that I know don't seem to fit, any of them.

I don't know a great deal about the command structure and task distribution among the Peacekeepers. That's not really anyone's concern except the Peacekeepers themselves, so it isn't exactly public knowledge. Anyone could be working for Scipio though, laying low, trying to avoid being noticed while gathering information, theoretically vital to the fabled rebellion that Scipio assures me will soon arrive.

Taking another swig, I feel trapped; cornered and caged like an animal in a meticulous game of politics. On the one side, the Capitol is running rampant over anyone it so chooses to destroy, using the Peacekeepers as its spear. On the other side, the underground is so petrified of discovery that no serious change is attempted, precluding the entire point of having a covert subversive program, in the first place. And me, stuck right in the middle, ready and willing to strike the one, if the other would just help.

In the corner-shot, the Career tributes are unconscious surrounded by landmines, guarded by the boy who replanted the mines, Teodor. He was stung also when the horde of tracker jackers followed the Careers back to the lake. In the miniscule image, Teodor rubs his head with both hands, attempting in vain to scrub away the murkiness that I have experienced myself.

District 11's massive agriculture plots are rife with the detestable insects, genetically designed to indispose any victim, at least for hours if not permanently. The Careers and Katniss too, still lying in that ditch, were stung more than twenty four hours ago and none are remotely close to combat ready. Katniss had yet to awaken at all.

In the kitchen, I hear the house door open. Meyla comes in to greet me. "Oh, Kip, you're home. Good."

"Hey." I stand up and shut off the television. My wife looks inquisitively at me but I shake my head. "No change yet."

"Oh. Well, that can be good, though." She bites the corner of her lips, thinking about poor, sweet Rue.

"Until the audiences get bored." Both of us know that the Gamemakers will always try to keep the broadcasts riveting, even if they have to drive kids into close quarters to generate more mayhem.

Meyla waves me into the kitchen, "Come here. Let me show you what I did today."

On the table, there's a worn leather sack that we use to bring home groceries. She reaches into it and pulls out a paper receipt like the one I was given at the Office of the Reaping on Monday afternoon. "I've been collecting donations all day," she says.

I look at the amount line, surprised. The number is almost as high as what we had donated earlier. That's eager generosity considering the bare-bones wages in this district. Most people can't afford enough food for themselves, which completely removes them from the pool of those who may spare something. For one day, this is amazingly generous.

Maybe Rue's impressive wind-dance through the trees is giving our neighbors a cause for pride. Typically the tributes we send to the Games are older and heavier, too much so to do much more than the usual tree climbing.

Rue is more talented then most young pickers, besides her wispy stature. Such graceful movements give her the illusion of total weightlessness. I recall Hannah having spoken so proudly of her daughter's talents. It is truly astounding to witness them and even my broken heart takes pride to know that the world is watching her do the impossible. It just won't be enough, so amazement in the Capitol isn't enough for me, either.

I fold the paper and give it back to Meyla. I try to work encouragement into my voice. "That's great. I can't believe so many people donated." My tone remains flat.

"People gave what they could. I only went through a few parts of town asking for donations. I think I'll walk to Wayspoint tomorrow and see if anyone would be willing to give." She refers to the other small town several miles walk through endlessly rolling fields, orchards, and vineyards. Meyla tilts her head so her silky hair slides away from her eyes.

Acknowledging her idea with a nod, I get a second cup and fill it with tea, refilling my own. "Listen, Mey. There's something we're going to have to do and it won't be easy."

She takes the second cup and sips. "What is it?"

"Volente Covas wants to have dinner with us. Sort of feel me out, I guess."

Meyla doesn't react, just waits for me to continue, so I go on tacitly avoiding certain words in case our house is being monitored. "I've been told he's going after subversives and that he thinks I fit the pattern."

She almost says something, bites her tongue. I know what it would have been anyway. I do fit the subversive pattern in every way because I _am_ fomenting insurrection. Motive could already be assigned to me, considering the hell I tried to raise about Mason's death and Covas' discarding the matter entirely. Sometimes motive is enough for the Peacekeepers to crack the whip. Never mind my actual ties to the underground. Meyla shrugs her shoulders. "We'll have dinner with him then. We wouldn't have a choice about it, right?"

"Not a wise choice, it seems." My wife doesn't share my opinions about Volente Covas. She was able to forgive his actions somehow. No penalty against Penrose will bring Mason back. Meyla doesn't take her logic a step further, as I do. What about the next victim of Peacekeeper aggression? What about Rue and the Capitol's annual circus of violence?

Justice has to be done, otherwise there can be no hope! Although Meyla doesn't like Covas, she also doesn't boil with anger the way I do. The meal on Tuesday will probably be easier on her than me. That seems to be true of everything. It might be that Meyla has worked the resentment out of her system, which has permitted her to move on these past few days. With renewed purpose, she can abandon the hopelessness we feel and find peace in easing the lives of those we love.

She makes her way to me and squeezes my hand, knowing everything about me that can be known. We once gave everything to each other and Mason was the embodiment of our charity with each other. It nearly ended our marriage when he died; the unrelenting misery, living with the one person who reminds you of what's lost. We really didn't work through that. She settled into a routine of living a quiet life and I put the horror of Panem's government in my sights, hungrily accepting the burden of vengeance.

I need to feel this way. I _need_ to hate them! If I don't, Mason's nineteen years cut short will have meant nothing! His memory is tainted with my ire for the Capitol and I can't recall my son without inevitably finding some shred of resentment to hang on to and pull, until my every waking moment is filled with spite. Emotional fuel for the attacks that I know must be unleashed against the powers that be.

How am I going to face Covas with this pent up rage? His careful observation is going to pick apart my defenses, unearth the truth of my darkened soul. This dinner is sure to end in my arrest, probably my wife's arrest, and whatever torture Covas determines to be proper. Nothing will have been changed other than a few more lives snuffed out. The rest will remain captive and shrouded by a choking blanket of control, like candles getting only enough oxygen to have a tiny dot of flame, never more, never burning brightly, and often extinguished by the thinnest breeze.

Meyla wraps her arms around me and I smell her hair, rosemary. Tears streak my face, even as I reinforce my stony expression. My hands slide around my wife's back and I weep in complete silence. For the agony I cultivate and conceal. For the stress. For Rue and my sister's family.

My wife kisses me, her sweet lips sending electric shocks through my chest that could light up Three Corners most nights of the year. She lays her head on my shoulder and kisses my neck. A moan of acceptance escapes my lips as I my hands rub between her back and her hair. I've forgotten how tender Meyla's touch can be, how amazing it feels to be desired by my wife. I want her too. I miss the closeness we shared when we were husband and wife, not just two people who live together. I want to be there for her.

My tainted, weary spirit pleads with me to succumb to these natural urges. Just vacate the underground, Kippen. Meet with Covas as your heart is healing, your mind is forgetting, and live on the rest of life. Mourn Rue with your sister's family and try to make each day a brighter one! My conscience battles itself.

The thought of my delightful niece brings to mind her words to me the last time I saw her. "I'll be brave, Uncle Kip." Earnest eyes stare at me through the past two weeks. Mason's crooked grin joins my niece's gaze and my heart trembles, wavers between those condemned relatives and this one who is doing everything she can to console me.

Meyla glimpses my lost eyes and tries to bring me back to the moment with another gentle kiss, only this time the sensation repels me like a blast. The back of my head slams into the cupboards, throwing stars across my vision. One arm around my wife, one hand grabs my head as I mumble, "I'm sorry. It's just…"

What? What is it? Her eyes inquire. Why are you still so set against living?

I can't abandon these children! No one will stand up for Rue. No Peacekeeper stood up for Mason to see proper punishment dispensed. No one in the Capitol stood up for Katniss who subjected herself to the vicious Hunger Games to spare a sister who will return to the reaping. I will not abandon them and the rest of Panem! I have a chance to make the world a better place, something Scipio claims hasn't happened in well over two hundred years!

Meyla's expression falls with my rejection and she slides of out the hug. Both hands rub the back of my head where a knot has already formed. My wife walks into the bedroom closing the door softly behind her.

My throat closes, eyes staring at the door. I'm a terrible person, tasting my wife's comforting offer before rejecting it, throwing it back in her face. She's not mad. Just sad that I won't let go, the way she has. I have isolated myself from everything except the anticipation to exact justice through my own strength. Can I set aside my feelings and pursue these goals dispassionately? A man at peace is content and not soon to change anything. The man who is ready to change things has a mind plagued with problems worth addressing. Maybe I should try to contain my passions. I could try to limit them to a manageable level, if I could find a way to forgive Covas for letting Penrose completely off the hook, or the Capitol for the Treaty of Treason. I doubt that I can. In any case, it would take time to put this genie back in the bottle. Certainly far more time than the few days I have until Covas questions us over plates of expensive food.

Scipio suggested that I be civil. If the Capitol is an example, I plan to be accordingly civil.


	10. Chapter 10

**PART II**

"THE REBEL"

10

My left fingernails tap nervously against the desk in front of my face. Our instructor drones on about square roots, except I can't see what she's doing on the board. She ignores me, my head lying on my right arm across the desk. It's better that she doesn't notice since my mind isn't going to be on schoolwork today. It's hard enough to sit still!

On Saturday morning, Katniss dropped the tracker jacker nest on the Careers to make her shaky getaway, aided by Peeta's selflessness. Saturday afternoon when I arrived home from school, my sister was still in the filthy ditch passed out on layers of dried leaves, seizing from the poison sludging through her system. Sunday, all day, Katniss stayed there, twitches weakening over the hours.

Monday morning at school, the replay started dully, showing tributes either collecting food or in a comatose stupor from stings. Three of the Careers are still passed out, excluding Cato who is sitting up, drinking lake water, purified and brought to him by Teodor from District 3.

Lydian, the boy from District 10 who has a crippled leg, hobbles out of the forest and into the dense wheat field, picking wild berries. Even Peeta, scarcely clinging to life, receives airtime. He struggles evidently for quite a few minutes to crawl a scant yard for a simple drink of water. Katniss remains in the ditch, any movements now imperceptible.

My experience in the apothecary shop had never involved more than one tracker jacker sting at a time and Katniss' lack of movement sends frightened tingles through my core. Coma; the word haunts my thoughts. Katniss is going to die. My sister couldn't recover from a coma and even if she could survive, she's completely exposed to anyone who wanders by, even wild animals. A persistent rain storm could drown her, if she doesn't have the presence of mind to roll her face out of the leaves.

Rue has stayed close by Katniss, even when leaving to find water to drink right out of a creek. She lacks the purifying iodine that my sister found stashed in her orange backpack. Rue's observance strangely eases my mind. The girl from District 11 has already helped Katniss twice, refusing every opportunity to kill my sister. For what little comfort that may be worth.

It really is the Capitol's fault, all of this. They control everything in Panem, so they have to take responsibility for my sister's condition, more than I do. She may not wake up from the poison at all! Each swollen sting has stopped leaking the green puss, holding puffy shape. Katniss is oblivious to the world and the Capitol is oblivious to her, since they hold the keys to the cage.

The replays wrap up quickly, having little to show with so many tributes disabled by the tracker jackers. The television is shut off so that the lesson may continue. On Monday mornings, the second class is always math. All the numbers and symbols and graphs appear a million miles away and fortunately the instructor never does call me out for not paying attention.

A jolt startles through me as the bell rings and almost breaking my trance, forcing me to get up from the desk. My next class is Panem History. This twists my face into an ugly scowl, like the one Katniss wears unconsciously. I can feel off-putting grimace though, the crease on my chin where my frown wrinkles skin. I hate Panem History class.

"Get back into a daze, Prim," my whisper pushes out between pursed lips.

Class commences and the instructor, Mr. Dallady, immediately begins to talk about the battle of District 13. I have seen the snapshots; every kid has. Burned out buildings and charred landscape. What remains standing are lifeless edifices; 13 was bombed until anything that could draw breath had been torn to bits.

That was how the Dark Days had come to a close. District 13 was the most rebellious district and they paid for their insurrection, paid for the uprisings of all the Districts. Everyone in 13's population was obliterated in the Capitol's vengeful firestorm. The lesson was thereby taught to the remaining twelve districts; submit or be destroyed forever.

Mr. Dallady drones on and on, feeding us the things the Capitol wants us to know and nothing else. He teaches this class several times a day, to each age level. We receive the same history class year after year, so by the time we are finished with schooling, the stories are firmly ingrained.

His lecture ends and he asks if anyone has questions. No one does. No one ever does, so I decide to raise my hand. "Yes, Ms. Everdeen." My last name, ugh, I'm Prim!

"Why did District 13 rebel? What did they want?"

He answers promptly, "They sought to isolate District 13 from the sovereign nation of Panem." Right out of the lesson plan.

"It wasn't for food, even a little bit?" My voice drips with more sarcasm than I realized I could muster.

Surprised at my frankness, Mr. Dallady quickly restores his composure, "Uh, no, actually. District 13 wanted to secede and was promoting ideologies which threatened the entire nation."

"Then why did other districts join them? Did District 13 offer food for allegiance?" It's civil disobedience to discuss the never-ending famine in the districts.

Eyes wide as wooden dinner plates, Mr. Dallady stammers in response. "It-ah-No. Not at all, the food rations were distributed fairly between regions, according to social value, as they are now, Primrose." Now he uses my first name to recover his authority.

Social value. That innocuous phrase is what they always say. All we can figure out is that it means 'what you're worth to the Capitol'. According to the Treaty of Treason, we aren't worth very much at all.

"Don't the Hunger Games show that people in the districts don't have much _social value_?" I emphasize the catchphrase, knowing every kid in the room is astounded that I have the temerity to speak what everybody hides deep inside.

Mr. Dallady's face flushes and he tries to spit out an answer. The bell rings and everyone stands to leave, kids whispering to each other as they crowed toward the door. Lazily, I shove my textbook into an oft-repaired backpack and stand to leave. "Ms. Everdeen, stay in the room, please!"

I obey his command, sullen numbness molded across my features. Mr. Dallady waits until everyone else has left. When he speaks, it's tactful and diplomatic, yet authoritative. "I'm afraid I can't tolerate anyone challenging the course material, Ms. Everdeen."

"Challenging? I was just asking questions." I sneer at him, hardly caring that he could report my pointed questions to the Peacekeepers. They took away Katniss. What more can they do? Stop Gale from bringing Mom and me food?

"That attitude will improve this instant, young lady, or there will be consequences!"

I laugh in his face. "Consequences? What are you going to do? Select me again next year?" I don't care anymore. Katniss is dying alone. Next year they'll have a new favorite and my sister will be entirely forgotten.

"You're not going to your next class." He grabs me by my arm and drags me through the door. Mr. Dallady shoves kids out the way, yanking me down the hall. Once at the headmaster's office, he tells me to sit down, and he continues on into the office, closing the door behind him.

The headmaster follows Mr. Dallady out, "You stay seated, right there, young lady." The pair turns curtly shuffling down the hall. Cynicism encases my nerves. None of this matters, anymore. I roam into the headmaster's luxurious vault. Some dark wood paneling covers the walls; expensive drapes blot all sunlight from the window. The rest of the school is profoundly drab by comparison. I look over the books on the wall, papers on the desk, and even find a thin bottle of spirits in his desk.

"Primrose Everdeen!" The headmaster's stern voice scares me, I whirl around. "You were told explicitly to remain seated. Do so, at once!"

"Fine!" Intending to growl, my childish voice squeaks pathetically. I slump into the chair noticing that the headmaster keeps his door open to keep a strict eye on me. I decide to stew in the satisfaction of getting a rise out of the staff.

But it's not satisfying. My tummy grumbles until I consider digging into the chunks of bread and cheese I brought wrapped in brown paper. Instead, I weigh my actions wondering why saying what I felt like didn't make me feel any better.

Katniss is still lying in a ditch and the Capitol remains unchanged.

Of course my challenge didn't help the anger in my stomach! It had no effect, except to get me into trouble. I wonder what they'll do to me, whether they will suspend wretched little Primrose, who forced her sister into the Games. Altogether, suspension doesn't sound terribly bad. I could stand to be out of school if only to get away from Mr. Dallady's lectures. The other kids are ok for the most part, but I can see them around the Seam.

I've never heard of someone staying suspended from school. No one goes up against authority like that. Most kids don't have the energy to do much more than the required schoolwork, which is easy on those rare days when you're well fed and the hollowness in your belly isn't constantly nipping thoughts. There's more to preoccupy me than a hollow diet, though.

Gale has brought us food every day, almost as much as Katniss would bring home. He's staying out longer than he usually does and trading after school before heading into the woods. Mr. Mellark has sent Allen to us with stale loaves of bread several times. That surprised Mom especially. She said, "You're a real darling, you know that, Prim?" She explained that Mr. Mellark is a nice man, that they were friends once long ago, but that he must like me if he's giving us some of the bakery's extra bread.

I don't want Gale spending his time taking care of me. I don't want the baker to bother about giving us bread. I don't want Mom to hold me anymore. I-I want my sister back! My jaw quivers with the thought, heart aches until my chest feels like it's going to explode. Everything hurts.

After almost an hour, Mom walks in led by a Peacekeeper who looks too young to be a part of the Capitol's police force. Mom reaches out to me. "Prim!"

Revoking my inhibition, I fling myself into her arms, grateful for the shelter of Mom's care. I know she can't protect me, if this Peacekeeper decides my actions are worthy of punishment. My delusion of apathy fades away, seeing a uniformed enlistee.

Then I take a better measure of the youthful Peacekeeper. Tangles of red hair sit awkwardly on his head and freckles pock his face. He's smiling actually, right hand extended toward me. "Hi there, Primrose. My name's Darius." He ignores my hesitation at the eventual handshake. "I know Katniss and Gale some. I just brought back your mother."

Oh, that explains it. Katniss and Gale trade with some of the Peacekeepers at the Hob black market. Even the Capitol's soldiers are dissatisfied in District 12. "Hi," I whisper.

"Mrs. Everdeen? Thank you for coming so quickly." The headmaster stands up and waves, "If you could bring your daughter in and take a seat." Mom sits gracefully. I crumple into the cracked leather cushion.

I blush, embarrassed by his recounting my "troubling behavior." How I "undermined the educational mission of the school" and "created a hazardous atmosphere for the other students" and "displayed a forceful unwillingness to learn, today."

"Now, in light of Katniss' participation in the Hunger Games, I think we can let this behavioral aberration go with a warning, if that's alright with you, Mrs. Everdeen?"

Mom nods her head and sends a glaring glance my way. "Yes, that's probably for the best. I don't know what's gotten into her." I want to thin into the chair and disappear. "I will certainly make sure she knows this is not appropriate!"

The headmaster thanks her and turns to me, tone hardened after decades of lecturing, "Primrose, the lesson plans are carefully designed to provide the most information to each student. You can ask questions, but acting out in this manner is hardly worthy of classroom time."

I nod, "Yes, sir. It won't happen again." To be sure, I don't know that. I'm so confused and tired. I struggle to breath in the headmaster's office, all of my confidence stripped away by underlying self-doubt. Every fiber of my body just wants to leave school, leave Panem, even. There's nothing else out there. Still nothing might be better than this.

District 12 has come apart for me. It's not just my father that can be taken away at any time. All of us could die any moment and it seems likely to happen if we stay in the Capitol's clutches. I entertain the dream of leaving for the remainder of the headmaster's discussion with Mom.

He dismisses us, telling me to come back tomorrow morning for a fresh start. Darius is still outside the office and walks us out of the school. Once we're past the playground, he says, "Primrose, you have to be more careful." He adopts a conciliatory gentleness on the edge of his voice. "A lot of people really liked your sister and we're going through the same thing you are."

A few people have said that and it always sounds stupid to me. They didn't depend on Katniss for everything. They didn't get selected in the reaping. They didn't tell Katniss that they wouldn't survive if she didn't.

Darius senses my disillusionment and adds, "She didn't take your place so that you could stop living in your own way."

He's right even if it sounds reprehensible. How can I possibly move on and accept Katniss' last days as her final provision for me? Yet, it would be better to treat this gift with the same respect I hold for everything else my sister gave me: the thousands of hours she spent gathering and hunting food, trading, holding me, cheering me up when I was sad, buying me a goat, even letting me keep our scruffy cat, Buttercup.

Darius moves off toward the mine. I trail Mom through the streets until we arrive at the apothecary. A nice man who runs the leather shop across the street is pounding on the apothecary door, peering into the dim windows as we approach. Lucas sees our reflection and whirls around, excitement glowing in his smile. "Did you hear? Katniss woke up!"

Mom breaks into a sprint, heading for the city square where the televisions are ever-splashing images of the arena, Games broadcasting day and night. I hurry to keep up, my shorter legs wearying faster than they should. I really have eaten far too little.

When we arrive, we see that Lucas was right. Katniss dominates the screen; a single corner-screen rotates among the other tributes.

Oh, I bet the Capitol is just loving this, my sarcastic thoughts gripe. Katniss has stripped down to her underwear, which isn't skimpy but leaves her stomach pale and gleaming in the sun. Her teenage body isn't curvy like it should be. Her hips jab out cliffs topping her legs. The undershirt clings to ribs stretching her pasty skin. Starvation scrimped away her every last ounce of fat. The stings are giant swollen welts, the only parts of Katniss where the poke of bones can't be traced.

She wrings out her clothes, having washed them in a creek and then she tosses them onto some shrubs in the sunlight to dry. I cling to Mom as we watch this blessedly humiliating spectacle of my sister being paraded in front of the nation gaunt and half naked.

Katniss brushes her fingers through her hair and then eats some food. Then she cleans the bow and arrows. The bow and arrows! Katniss has the weapon she's good at, the one lethal skill she's practiced for years!

I gasp, thinking that if she can just get enough to eat, the other tributes don't stand a chance against my sister now that she has a bow! They're all carrying swords and spears and knives; short-range weapons, except that girl from District 2, Clove. She has a surreal talent at throwing knives. She must have practiced illegally before volunteering for the Hunger Games. Clove might be competition for Katniss, but then I don't know the effective range of throwing knives, probably less than arrows. And the other tributes may be big, nevertheless Katniss and Gale have even brought down deer with their bows before and Katniss is the better of the hunting pair!

Katniss rubs more medication on her burns and I wonder aloud if it would help the stings. Someone else watching the screen says she already tried it once; it doesn't work. Katniss braids her hair and puts the damp clothes back on. She gathers her meager possessions into the now mud-smeared, orange backpack and situates the priceless quiver beside it on her back.

As she creeps upstream, everyone captivated by her astounding determination. Her footsteps are certain and coming across a bird, her shot is perfect, dropping the game handily. I don't shed a tear for it, now seeing my sister's condition, not to mention her accuracy killing it instantly.

She builds a fire to cook the bird, plucks its feathers, and sets it to roast. A noise startles her, too quiet to be picked up by the microphones. The crowd leans closer to the TVs to catch any faint sound. The second image in the screen hasn't shown anyone stalking her, however something is there. In one swift motion, Katniss yanks an arrow onto the string with practiced ease and aims across the creek.

I hold my breath. Katniss catches a glimpse of her target and her lips curl upward ever so slightly. "You know, they're not the only ones who can form alliances." She speaks loudly to whoever is there.

The camera angle shifts to show Rue peeking out from behind a tree. "You want me for an ally?" Her small voice, disbelieving.

"Why not? You saved me from those tracker jackers." Rue did more than that although there's no way Katniss could know. She lowers the bowand replaces the arrow into her quiver. "You're smart enough to still be alive and I can't seem to shake you, anyway."

Rue doesn't move, the camera shot looks over her shoulder, the way she's watching Katniss. The tiny girl's fingers tap against the tree trying to decide. Katniss tries again, "You hungry?" She waves over the girl from District 11. "Come on then. I've had two kills today." Two?

Rue cautiously moves toward Katniss. "I can fix your stings."

"Can you? How?"

Rue shows Katniss some leaves and tells her that she recognized them from working in the orchards. Rue chews the leaves into a mush and presses it upon my sister's swollen knee. Katniss' eyes roll back to whites and she moans in satisfaction. Rue laughs and chews up more leaves for the other two stings. Relief floods through Katniss, loosening the tightness in my own chest. In exchange, Katniss treats a burn on Rue's arm with the ointment. Rue stares at the medicine amazed, though despondent. "You have good sponsors."

Katniss asks, "Have you gotten anything?" Rue shakes her head, no. "You will though. Watch. The closer to the end, the more people will realize how clever you are."

"You weren't joking? About wanting me for an ally?"

This is a bizarre turn of events. Rue is probably the most resourceful ally Katniss could have given her obvious knowledge of plants. Only under guard of the delirious Careers is there any alternative to scavenging.

"No, I meant it." On the screen, I can see compassion in Katniss' eyes, have seen it often; a big sisterly consolation that shows when I'm upset. The two girls shake hands on the bond, silent to the fact that it can only last for a matter of time.

Over dinner of the bird and some rabbit, they talk about food in the districts. District 11 is very harsh about controlling the produce, apparently, severely punishing people on a regular basis for minor infractions, regardless of the desperation brought about by hunger.

No doubt seeing this discussion as more than the Capitol wants to broadcast, the two girls are banished to the inset corner-screen without volume. The shots pan around the other tributes. A few of them harvest berries and fruit, eating right off the bushes and trees. The other Careers are finally beginning to stir at their lakeside provision dump.

Evening fell while Mom and I were glued to the plaza, watching Katniss recuperate from the tracker jackers and form an alliance with Rue. There's no point going back to the apothecary shop now, so we decide to head home.

I think about what Darius said and also remember what Gale told me days before. We just have to remember Katniss and move on, hard as it might be. I don't want to do that! All of my concentration has been focused on finding someone to blame, someone to lash out at besides myself. None of it will bring Katniss back. Whatever I do to satisfy my anger about the Treaty of Treason will only hurt me and Mom. Katniss would never approve of that. She never speaks ill of the Capitol, even though I know she despises them too.

Maybe I have to let Katniss go. If I don't, then what she's done for me won't matter. My heart protests, she's looking better now though! I love my sister and have faith in her abilities. At least ten tributes are still alive and the odds of Katniss killing each of them are... I hate thinking about it, except there's little choice.

When we get home, Mom and I make dinner after turning on the broadcast. The Careers are hydrating themselves. Verona from District 5 seems to be debating whether or not to eat a handful of berries, somewhat nonsensically. Maybe she thinks they might be poisonous.

Thresh is doing the same thing he's done every time the Gamemakers have shown him. Alone, way out on the sweeping plain, he eats oats right off the stalks, washing them down with berries from shriveled, thistly bushes interspersed throughout the golden wheat. Peeta has submerged himself in mud, trying to disguise his location, unable to do much of anything with his surely infected leg.

When the shot cuts back to Katniss and Rue, the pair is climbing into a tree; evening chases the sun past the arena's horizon. They huddle down together inside the ragged sleeping bag and Katniss loops her belt across their waists, tightening it around the limb to secure them for the night. Can that little strap hold their combined weight? Actually, Katniss has lost so much body mass and Rue is naturally light, it probably wouldn't be an issue.

Katniss asks how long she was unconscious from the stings. Two nights, Rue tells her. "The girls from Districts One and Four are dead. There's only ten of us left."

Katniss' eyes glaze distantly, buried in contemplation. "Something strange happened; at least, I think it did... It might have been the tracker jacker venom making me imagine things. You know the boy from my district? Peeta? I think he saved my life. But he was with the careers."

"He's not with them now," Rue replies. "I've spied on their base camp by the lake. They made it back before they collapsed from the stingers, but he's not there. Maybe he did save you and had to run."

Katniss says, "If he did, it was probably just part of his act." Confusion tilts my head. Peeta wasn't acting. He almost died saving her from Cato and everyone knows now that Peeta has adored Katniss for a long time, even before the reapings. "You know, to make people think he's in love with me."

Rue stares at her and then says what everyone else in Panem is saying. "Oh... I didn't think it was an act."

"'Course it is. He worked it out with our mentor." Haymitch Abernathy hardly seemed like the sort of person worth getting advice from, on Reaping night. I hope that he has been sober since then. In District 12 everybody knows that drink controls him, not the other way around.

Anyway, Katniss is wrong about Peeta, in denial perhaps. It seems terribly unfair that she should insist he faked his emotion. Even though he's still a tribute that has to die to return Katniss home, I can't help but admire him.

Peeta's spent the past two nights delirious with tracker jacker stings, freezing in the mud beside another creek, deep in the woods, his leg rotting from bacteria and grime, for Katniss. Peeta did for my sister what she did for me; only she's related to me. It's obvious Peeta loves her!

Rue and Katniss discuss their predicament. The pair can't win against a group of Career tributes, even with the bow. The one thing they can both do very well is feed themselves from the environment. Rue points out that the Career tributes have all the food from the cornucopia at their fingertips. Katniss concurs that should be the focus. "I think we're going to have to fix that, Rue."

Fatigue overtakes both tributes; Rue hugs herself against Katniss who snuggles back for extra warmth. Mom and I have eaten dinner and choose to go to bed ourselves. Nothing else will happen tonight. The only tributes who seem interested in offensive tactics are the two allied groups: the Careers and the two girls from the two worst-off districts.

I sit in bed, my bed, alone. School is a cause for dread. I don't want to go back and endure another day of Capitol propaganda. I don't know how the instructors tolerate it. They have no choice. After the trouble I got into, skipping a day would surely raise the heat further, so I have no choice either.

Nothing makes sense. I can't tell if I should stay mad at the Capitol or if it's even possible to calm down while the Hunger Games are ongoing. I don't know what to do or whether there is anything I can do.

Now, Katniss has a friend in the arena that has saved her life twice. A friend she may have to kill, but a friend no less. It's a minimal solace, although any solace is helpful. My entire family could use a great deal more.


	11. Chapter 11

11

Since refusing my wife, I have taken up sleeping on the nicer couch in the den. It's a lumpy old thing, passable only in that it's higher than the floor. Aches punish my back with relentless stiffness. I get up early for a meager breakfast of bland oatmush, and then leave for the Main Office. I haven't been there nearly as often since the reaping and the upcoming meal/interrogation is a grave concern. If the Peacekeepers are starting to keep tabs on me, they'll find that I'm working a bare fraction of the six day week.

The streets are almost empty. Rays of approaching daybreak scarcely test 11's nighttime horizon. I arrive at the Main Office and check through the security door, lugging my pack down to the lowest level of the atrium again. I should be able to get the remaining pillars analyzed by lunchtime. With all the data gleaned from the research, I could write a decent report and claim to Covas that my absence from the Main Office was spent sifting through the information. Though slim, it may be my only response. I unpack the crawler and get it crawling.

Every thought is laden with the Games. On the one hand, it's very helpful for Rue to be allied with Katniss. The girl from District 12 is obviously more lethal than Rue could ever have become. The replays showed Katniss using her bow to take down game effortlessly, as though she had been doing so for years.

In the arena, all alliances are fleeting as the lives of the tributes. Once only a handful of tributes are left, Katniss will most likely kill my niece. I just can't imagine my niece raising a blade against the girl with the mockingjay pin. It's hard to imagine Rue raising a blade to anyone, actually. She has always been a model of love and compassion toward family and friends.

Perhaps Rue can flee any arrows she may encounter and come to a stalemate. If Rue can get away, she can stay away, but Katniss and Rue can both survive on the wilderness' food and water sources, until the Gamemakers decide to liven things up.

It doesn't matter today since the two girls have decided to focus their efforts on destroying the Career's food and supply dump. They are going to spend the day gathering food until they have created a plan. The world so rarely goes according to plan.

Wistful memories cloud my vision. I let myself be carried away into the past, shrugging off the heavy burden of the present.

"Dad, don't go in there!" Mason's voice cracks as teenaged voices do.

I tilt my head, coat hanging by one hand, other palm on the kitchen closet doorknob. "What?"

Mason glances away. His homework is spread out on the kitchen table. "Well, it's..." He stutters. "See..."

"Son, what's going on?" I crack open the closet door and peek inside. It's dark. Grack! A noise pierces the darkness. I pull the door open wide, bathing the closet in afternoon-window glow.

A fuzzy, yellow duckling waddles out onto the kitchen floor, quacking away. I stare, look to Mason and then stare at the duck again.

"See, I wanted to tell you first..." Mason comes around the table and picks the tiny bird up, cradling it in his hands.

"You could have. Where did you get that and what's it doing here?" I hang my coat and glance around the closet to see if the animal left a mess. None.

"His name's Alpert," Mason replies. "There was a bunch of them in the creek. One of the Peacekeepers shot the mother and so me and a few other kids decided to take care of the baby birds."

I look closer. The duckling looks at least old enough to get around on its own. "Mason, I don't think we can keep a pet. You know how your mother feels about messes in the house-"

"I'll clean up after him and I'll even feed him everyday."

A sigh escapes my lungs. I sit down at the table. "That's a big responsibility, son. Besides, when it's fully grown, we'd have to sell him."

Mason pets the bird's tiny head as it quacks, little, webbed, orange feet sticking out between my son's fingers. "I know we can't keep him forever, dad. I just want to raise him."

My palm finds my forehead to rub. "I dunno, Mason."

"C'mon, dad. Pleaaase?" The bird tilts its head looking around the room with that ever blank stare every that every duck has.

Sigh. "I suppose we can keep it for a little bit, if he stays in a crate that you clean every day. Every day, son."

That funny, off-centered smile warms across Mason's cheeks. "Alright! I can do that!" He holds the bird up to his nose. "Hear that, Alpert? We're gonna keep you!"

"And we're not calling him Alpert. We're going to call it duck, okay? It can't stay indefinitely."

Meyla took some convincing, agreeing only to a one-week trial run. Mason kept his word though, cleaning the crate everyday and feeding the duck worms. It became a slightly more permanent pet after the trial period. It wasn't even as noisy as I expected the duck would become.

Around five months later, when the duck was just about fully grown, my sister gave birth to her fourth child, Sythia. Meyla and I, on several occasions, bought gifts/groceries for them, to help offset their financial burdens. Mason, though it was terribly difficult, volunteered to sell the duck and gave the Amaranths brand new baby clothes. Their old baby clothes had been handed down so many times, they were simply shot.

That's the Mason I remember. Generous, caring, and eternally optimistic. That's the Mason I miss. My son.

I sip a thermos of coffee and note it's almost empty. The crawler has another few minutes left to finish the current column, so I go scouting for a coffee maker that's not too close to any Peacekeepers who might give me a hard time about drinking their brew. It's enough of a hassle that I have to work inside this leviathan hall. Can't skip coffee, too.

Meyla's offer that I might still be able to use my heart for something other than a motivator in rebellion was becoming a distant memory. I even hate myself for what my rejection is doing to her. We've only spoken about my sister's family since then. And I've spent each wretched night on the lumpy, worn couch.

A counter in the back of an officers' break room has a half empty pot on the warmer; hopefully decaf. Caffeine won't help my mental state. As I pour the drink into my thermos, I glance over my shoulder. Two officers are watching the television, the backs of their heads peeking over a broad couch.

On the screen, early morning is only just beginning to break. The boy from District 10 ravenously consumes berries. There's no inset screen to show what the other tributes are doing. The Gamemakers probably think something is going to happen, but I can't see any other tributes near this poor lad. He's the one with the bad foot that keeps him limping. It's surprising how long he's lasted with a gimp walk.

I put the pot back on the warmer and sip the coffee. It's not a bad cup, if a slightly weaker blend than what I usually prefer. Oh well, District 11 folk can't be choosers. So declares the Capitol. I take another sip, the piping hot liquid stinging my tongue.

Like a tiger, a mere blur of movement, a huge tribute blasts through the stalks of wheat behind the crippled boy and pounces him into the underbrush, disappearing as fast as he appeared. It happened so quickly, so surprisingly that I jerk, coffee sloshing over the mug's rim, scalding my hand. I grimace at the wet burn.

I set the thermos down and run my hand under cold water, eyes still on the screen watching the sudden attack. It was Thresh, the spindly and giant male tribute from this district. Though the Gamemakers were switching back and forth between shots, they can't seem to find one showing anything more than Thresh's back. The labels are brought back up, floating in the air, pointers dragging off the bottom of the screen.

Not ten seconds after tackling the boy from District 10, Thresh finishes him quickly, almost mercifully. There was no way the crippled child could have gotten away and no real means to fight back. His only weapons were makeshift clubs he'd picked up on the forest floor and those were tucked into his belt. The death announcement flashed across the image. The boy's name was Lydian.

I wipe my hands on a rag and screw the lid onto my thermos. The burned skin still smarts. The Peacekeepers are discussing Thresh's kill, fascinated with his ability to stalk undetected, in spite of his enormous size and strength. He's a very controlled enemy. Anyone who bet on him at the outset of the Games bet wisely. This is his first kill, according to the statistics on the screen. Much more impressive than the Careers who are overconfident and throw caution to the wind in their attacks, year after year.

Walking back to the atrium, I wonder if Thresh killed the boy so handily because he didn't want to kill anyone, because a swift demise is better than a slow, agonizing death. Thresh wants to come home like anyone else, yet his pattern shows that he is reluctant to harm other tributes. He has remained hidden in the field since the Games began, eight days ago. Maybe he's just terrified, in spite of his size and covert ability. Maybe he just can't seem to shake the fear of the arena. That could be the case, as well.

Without more action from him, it would be impossible to really analyze the motivation behind Thresh's choices thus far. And at this rate, we won't figure anything out at all. Less than a dozen tributes remained and only one of the twenty-four had encountered him.

The crawler has finished prodding the pillar and is nearly to the floor again. I replace the memory chip, move it to another pillar and hook up a new battery, getting it under way.

Hot coffee warms through my organs, calming. It's decaf then, the rarer type. So, I have to attend this dinner with Volente Covas. The irony that he'd investigate me, as opposed to the man who murdered my son, rasps through me again and I actually manage a bitter grunt of a chuckle.

The Captain must be a true career Peacekeeper. Sure, investigating Peacekeeper actions are rare; rarer still in the agriculture district where beatings are often more available than food, despite harvesting the food locally. Such investigations do happen from time to time, though. Peacekeepers are occasionally expunged from the corps and in the past there have even been executions.

I sit down on the floor and lean against a pillar, bringing up the data from the recent card. At first it all looks the same as the rest, until I notice pressure fracturing near the hub joint. Judging by the weak points in the massive stone, the hub has collapsed or crumpled slightly on the northwest corner, the side which kept one of the rear wings' roof up.

Hustling up to the crawlspace, I make my way around the gigantic steel ring and confirm my suspicion. The Main Office took some type of aerial bomb from a Capitol attack during the Dark Days. A number of the roofing beams on this side were replaced and welded to the humongous hub. The replaced I-beams stretch the enormous length on the northwest wing in a spider's web maze of steel and stone, finally meeting the distant edge of the building.

Those walls of the wing have their own concealed support lattice which I haven't tested. I got some readings from the data I gathered outside, just not enough for a real understanding of the wing stresses. I've put off studying inside that wing for a while because that's the barracks and it would require constant escort and disruption of every room adjoining the outer wall or any interior supports.

The hub itself is damaged; its gentle warp is superficially visible when I lean my face down against the painted metal and play a flashlight across its surface. An electric toner should reveal any serious defects. I switch mine on, touching the electrodes to various places on the hub's edges. Nothing here, or here. I shift the electrodes about. The toner sends an electromagnetic pulse through the metal and the readings indicate the molecular consistency of the steel. So far, all readings are right in the appropriate range for the massive ring.

If there are any problems with the structure, they're too small for this undersized tool to detect. I have a bigger toner at my storage locker, a huge apparatus with hundreds of electrodes. It requires a trip to carry by itself. I'll have to use it on the hub at some point. For now, the pillar readings will do.

Far below, the crawler has finished another cycle and settled back at the floor. I hurry back down to get it rolling again. Then, I head back to that officers' lounge, finding it empty, to see if Rue and Katniss are being featured.

They are still just gathering plants to eat, talking about the supply dump. Katniss says, "The boy from District Three? He's working with them?" She drops a handful of berries into a pouch on her mud-splotched backpack.

"Yes, he stays at the camp full-time. He got stung, too, when they drew the tracker jackers in by the lake." Rue's birdlike fluttering through the trees enables her to observe from where no tributes really should be; clever little dear, and brave just like she promised. "I guess they agreed to let him live if he acted as their guard. But he's not very big."

"What weapons does he have?"

"Not much that I could see: a spear. He might be able to hold a few of us off with that, but Thresh could kill him easily." That I do not doubt any longer. The two girls move on to find more edible plants. Thresh could probably kill everyone in the arena easily, which makes it perplexing as to why he has not pursued an offensive strategy instead of maintaining a territorial approach. His interview with Caesar Flickerman was awkward. No matter what Caesar asked, he couldn't get Thresh to say two words in a sentence.

"And the food's just out in the open?" Katniss asks Rue who nods. "Something's not quite right about that whole setup."

"I know. But I couldn't tell what exactly. Katniss, even if you could get to the food, how would you get rid of it?"

"Burn it, dump it in the lake, soak it in fuel," Katniss grins and pokes my niece's stomach. "Eat it!" Rue giggles as Katniss continues, "Don't worry. I'll think of something. Destroying things is much easier than making them."

They talk for a while longer covering various topics. The inset screen shows the Career tributes are still battling to overcome their tracker jacker stings, lacking the remedy so common in District 11. There will be very little traffic for a while. Overnight shifts are ending and day shifts have just begun, leaving the entertainment room unused for the next few hours.

Rue tells Katniss about how people in District 11 love to sing and how the mockingjays sing the field songs back. Meyla and I used to take walks through the countryside, when it wasn't harvest season, to hear the singing and to sing along. My wife has a splendid voice, but I would just hum because mine is crunchier than the gravel roads. Mason was more independent by that time, allowing my wife and I to become closer than ever, enjoying every moment of each other.

When I return to the present, I find the kids have begun discussing a real plan. The Career tributes haven't yet left the pile of supplies surrounded by landmines. Katniss and Rue don't know about the mines, however they know something is amiss I decide to go back to work, since it will be several hours before anything will happen.

I send the crawler up. Only two more cycles to go following this one and I'll have a complete data set on the pillars. After that, I plan to pack up and head home. I'll try to look at the information before going to the dinner tonight. I better have prepared what I'm going to say, so I should plan on going through some practiced phrases too.

Scipio really should be told about the minor structural defects in the Main Office's atrium support columns. He's so elusive about what the plan for rebellion actually is; I'm beginning to bet he just doesn't have a plan that would work. If I could come up with a way to bring down these supports, he just might go for it. It could rally the abused and withered people of District 11 around the rubble that would bury so many of our oppressors!

If only another bomb was dropped, maybe the pressure fractures would burst right through the polished stone and the whole building would come down. No more Volente Covas, Jura Penrose, or a few hundred other lash-wielding thugs hired by the Capitol. I wonder if Jura Penrose is on the day shift or not. It doesn't matter anyway. Not because the idea isn't palpable to me, yet. It is. I just don't have a bomb.


	12. Chapter 12

12

"Prim, can I walk you home?"

Madge Undersee follows me through the school doors. Madge is ok. She sits with Katniss sometimes. They're friends of a sort. She never talks very much. I shrug, "Yeah, I guess so." The mayor's daughter matches my brisk pace.

My imagination takes over when I can't see the broadcasts. Even worse than actually watching. Katniss and Rue had been plotting various ways to attack the career's stash and I feel like I'd be letting my sister down somehow if I wasn't there to watch her carry through their plan.

Madge's legs are longer, and still she has to take long strides to keep up with my near-jog. We rush through the edges of the business district in silence, my thoughts still jumbled. So many emotions surge through me, conflicting with each other, scouring away my logical processes, that I can't make heads or tails of what I should feel.

Some part of me wants to repeat my feeble attempts at striking against the authorities who are set in place by the Capitol, even Mayor Undersee. That's illogical, though. He's not a bad man, even if some people of the district don't care for him, those in the Seam especially. Many kids even dislike Madge because they see her life as privileged and pampered. She's always isolated herself from everyone, not just Seam residents, a lot like Katniss does. So Katniss and Madge were almost friends. Madge has spent a few nights at our house in the past.

Gale dislikes her somewhat, as well. Of course, Gale very obviously dislikes anything that has a hint of Capitol influence and now I understand why. The reaping terrified me as a child, but it's different than I thought. The reaping is just part of the Hunger Games. The Hunger Games are just part of the hunger games. The rest of it, the Capitol practices on everyone, everyday when it severely restricts what food and clothes and things we can have, while keeping everything they could possibly want for themselves.

When we enter the Seam, Madge says, "I heard about yesterday. About your class with Mr. Dallady?"

That's no surprise. It had been bigger talk around school than Katniss' rejuvenation. My sister is so distant and still close at the same time. Her private moments each day are broadcast to us kids, everyone in District 12, and the world. Yet, I can't touch her anymore and let her know how I love and appreciate her.

"I understand." Madge's words nearly drag me to a halt. She understands? What does she understand? My sister didn't hang out with Madge all that much. They weren't that close and Madge has actually lived her life in a house that hasn't let her want for anything, except the occasional electric light. Because he's the mayor, the Undersee family even has a telephone in their house to talk to other privileged people in Panem.

Madge slows down the pace but keeps walking and now I fall into step beside her. She understands what I said? Actually, it's not altogether unthinkable that someone who has lived a better life could see the situations of others and come to the same conclusions as the rest of us. She dresses in drab clothes like we do and tries to blend into the background. Maybe she's ashamed of her family's wealth.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"I mean a lot of things should be different." Madge whispers almost silently. She's so hard to read, so concealed.

"Yes." We walk for another block. "But can they be different? The Capitol is so strong!" My own voice is a whisper but Madge shushes me anyway.

"Shh, Prim. Of course things can be different. They were different before Panem existed and different before the Dark Days, even."

That's true, I think to myself. There was no Treaty of Treason, no annual reaping for any Hunger Games. "I mean, can it change?"

Madge nods. "Everything always changes eventually, but we can only work with what we have."

And that's why it won't change, my frustrated heart replies. We don't have anything to work with. It's illegal to leave Panem, illegal to own any weapons. Even the Peacekeepers only use registered weapons. We really don't have enough food. There's hardly any electricity for most of the year. Madge and I round the corner of my home now, about to go inside. "We're stuck good, Madge."

She looks at me when I hold the door open for her, Madge's expressionless features melting for a second into a sweet smile that's ever more impossible to understand. "Chin up, Prim. We still have our hearts."

I retrieve some leftover mint tea. Madge turns on the television and we sit down to watch. Katniss is staring through a bush hedge. A corner-shot shows the Career tributes talking around the pile of supplies. Katniss watches them from the edge of the forest, hiding in a shallow culvert among dense hedges. The concealment is so good, even the cameras don't have a great angle. Rue's no where near my sister. Another corner-shot shows the girl crouched near a stack of kindling, watching the shadows bend, using the light's subtle shift as a timepiece.

Obviously, the two settled on a course of action and are awaiting the moment to set it in motion. Katniss has an eleven, I reassure myself. And a bow! There's no way she can kill all four Career tributes before they get her. Rue's going to draw the Careers away, providing Katniss a chance to steal some supplies and destroy the rest.

During the wait, I'm drawn back to what Madge said. We still have our hearts, yes, yet mine is so contorted that I can hardly tell what it's good for. Katniss was an anchor for me, even more so than Mom has been. And even though Mom is dear, there's only one person that never once let me down, and that's my big sister. Not once! Maybe she isn't the most pleasant person to others. I don't care because she was always sweet to me, even when scolding. Katniss was very clear in showing me what I mean to her. I always believed it. I didn't need the reaping to figure it out.

So, how can I move on? How is it even remotely possible? Everyone is trying to tell me that to love Katniss, I have to let her go. That is so backward; it makes me dizzy just to think about. You can't love someone enough to let them go! It doesn't work like that. When you love someone you hold on to them forever, come what may!

It hits me like a lightning bolt. "We still have our hearts." Madge wasn't talking about me and Katniss at all. She was talking about my 'outrage' in the classroom yesterday. Even if the Capitol tries to tell us what to think, it really can't control thoughts and it can't control what we feel, what we hold dear. If it tried, it would have to destroy us and then where would they get their coal from? Never mind entertainment!

What else did she say? "Everything always changes eventually, but we can only work with what we have." What do I have? I have my heart and Mom, and we have our patients at the apothecary shop. We have Gale who still cares about us. Mom has a few friends in the business district and I have a few in the Seam.

What can I do? I can make life better for them, since I still own my heart. It doesn't seem like much. Maybe Madge will explain further. I look over at her, but her head has sunken, hanging darkly over her neck like a vulture. Her jaw is clenched tight as she glares at the screen. Nothing has changed in the arena, though.

"Madge?" She doesn't move or even blink. "Madge, are you okay?" I put my hand on her shoulder and she starts with a jolt.

"Sorry," she mutters, wiping a single tear from her eye, trying to hide her face.

"What's the matter?"

It takes a while for her to answer. "Well, I feel like-" Madge closes her eyes and sighs. "I just want Katniss to win."

"Me too." I mean to ask her about her statements, except the screen interrupts, cutting to the Careers who argue about whether or not to bring the boy from District 3 with them. The one named Teodor. In one of the inset shots, Rue glides through forest branches, leaving behind a smoky fire that will draw the Careers away from the plain.

As the group of boys and one girl leave their provisions, the biggest one named Cato barks, "When we find her, I kill her in my own way, and no one interferes." I squeak out a giggle at how easily they're fooled. Katniss coolly watches them leave.

The pile is unguarded, except for the landmines hidden around it. Katniss is smart enough to know that there are traps so she waits in the thicket. The Careers had left a guard with their supplies, but weren't leaving anyone behind at all now, a dead giveaway that something is amiss.

I'm right. She doesn't move for several minutes, watching the mound of supplies. Soon the Gamemakers realize that the Careers will find nothing at the first fire because Rue is long gone. They confine the group to a corner-shot and call up a view of the piled up crates and packs.

Nothing happens. Another corner shows a few glimpses of Rue leaping her way through the foliage. Her talent is bizarre if extremely useful. She hardly has to drop to the ground; perhaps once every few hundred yards.

Then a third corner-shot appears, this one displaying Verona from 5, dashing across the plain to the supply dump. Katniss sees her right away and just watches as the wily girl stops quite short of the pile, examining the ground. She goosesteps several long strides, tip toes here and there, and even jumps once, almost falling in a tense instant, barely catching her footing.

Once at the pile, Verona picks through the food stores and medicines, snatching tiny quantities of many items, not enough to be noticed. She even climbs up to swipe some apples from a bag tied to a crate handle at the mound's peak. Arms laden, Verona makes her way down and retraces her steps, carting off as much of the provisions as she can carry.

Almost as soon as Verona reaches the edge of the woods, Rue, deeper still in the forest sets fire to a second pile of wood that was already prepared. She doesn't hesitate one bit, jumping right back into the branches and flowing further on.

My nose wrinkles and I drink some of the mint tea. One fire was a good idea, but a second fire so quickly seems to me like it would tip off the Careers that they are pursuing decoys. Rue probably should have just set the fire deeper in the woods and left it alone.

Katniss is still mulling over Verona's awkward heist. Through the leaves, the shot shows her looking at the sky to see the new column of smoke. The Careers will see it too, finding no one at the first fire, and realizing they've been tricked. Katniss has to hurry, if she's going to do anything!

Suddenly, her face lights up with an idea and she moves out onto the plain. The Gamemakers fill the main image with Katniss' thin form. "Wait," I whisper, sure that she hasn't realized the traps are landmines. Katniss stops short and shoots an arrow at the pile. It zips right past. She missed? "What's she doing?" I whisper anxiously.

Katniss fires again, this arrow snaps through the same spot. The shot tightens revealing that she's shooting at the bag holding the apples near the top of the pile. It's torn open now, barely hanging on to the weight of the fruit. Madge sits up, words a flood of worry, "She's too close."

Too late! Katniss looses a third arrow; a perfect shot which cleanly slices away the rest of the bag. Browned apples tumble out and pour over the crates, almost in slow motion. Katniss only has time to turn halfway, preparing to run when the first mine detonates! The blast cooks others with its concussion and they join in the frenzy. A lamp fuel tank ruptures blazing a violent purple-orange so brightly that the camera's iris instantly cuts out all other light. The image of the arena is like night as the flames lick into the air buffeted harder and harder with each shock-wave explosion!

I can't see Katniss! I'm on my feet, palms clamped over my mouth, frantic squeaks of dismay drowned out by the ongoing rumble from the television set. A continuous inferno ravages the roaring fuel; black smoke billows, soaring into the air when daytime returns. Explosions continue to scorch the ground, demolishing everything. I plead with fate to protect Katniss from the chaos!

Hands still fastened to my face, I risk turning away from the onscreen carnage to Madge. Her eyes are big as dinner plates. Her mouth hangs agape. Nothing like this has ever happened in a Hunger Games season! Explosives have never been provided, to my limited knowledge. Until now, the only time they have occurred is when a tribute stepped off the platform too early.

At last, the landmines stop erupting and the Gamemakers locate Katniss in the field. The shock waves tossed her a good distance. Her arm is wrapped over her face to protect it from the bits of everything which were tossed into the sky. She rolls over, looking numbly at the wreckage. Blood flows from her left ear, dripping onto the hard-packed soil.

Katniss tries to stand up and I try to sit down. My knees are shaking. She stumbles to the ground after a few dizzy steps and lays there panting. "Go, Katniss. Run!" I scream into my hands. Madge wraps an arm around my shoulders to absorb my shivering.

In the frame, Katniss pulls up her hood around her face and knots the string. She finally starts an agonizingly slow crawl back to the bushes, where she had been hidden a heartstop earlier. In the corner screen, the Careers have heard the blasts thunder past them and immediately abandoned the fires. They're running hard, full speed, tracker jacker venom no longer a factor in their adrenalin-charged blood-thirst. The boys and girl bound over fallen trees and run straight through clumps of bushes, weapons flailing.

"You have to move!" I scream. She's only halfway to the forest when another latent landmine fires off. Katniss drops back to the ground, although she regains her motion faster this time, almost swimming over the dirt.

The Gamemakers switch the main camera shots to those following the Careers' furious return. Katniss isn't going to make it out in time!

When they break into the wide clearing, their attention is stolen from the borders of the woods and fixated on the total destruction of all their supplies. Katniss manages to slide under the bushes and back into the grime of the culvert, collapsing into the dead leaves.

The Careers are enraged. Incensed, Cato rips out a fistful of his own scalp and punches the ground, screaming unintelligibly. Teodor, the tribute who replanted the landmines, throws rocks at scarred ground now pockmarked with dark little craters. He tells the Careers that it's safe and they start rifling through the shattered equipment.

Cato does more kicking and screaming in the junk than searching. With insane vitriol, he turns to Teodor. "I thought you said the mines wouldn't damage the stuff!"

"I swear-I had no idea. They're stronger than the mines I worked on back ho-"

Cato cuts him off, "Stronger! You think so? Everything we have is gone, blasted back to the Capitol, you idiot! You want to see stronger? I'll show you stronger!"

The smaller boy turns to run, but he's simply no match for Cato who wraps a thick arm around Teodor's neck. Cato whips around, flinging the boy from the headlock. Another death notification flashes up onto the screen before Teodor's hits the ground.

The other two tributes put their hands up, as Cato's fury looks for another outlet. "Let's go!" he yells, turning back toward the forest.

"What? No, Cato!" Clove shouts back. "Whoever was here is toast now. Look around!" Clove waves her arms amidst shredded supplies.

"She's right, man." The other boy is named Marvel, from District 1. "That one's fertilizer, for sure."

"No! No! We're going to find every last tribute left and end this!"

Marvel backs away defensively. "That's crazy, Cato! We don't even know who is left or where they are or-"

"You shut up! We just lost everything! We have to counterattack, now!" Cato yanks his sword from his belt and thrusts it at the woods.

"I'm telling you. Whoever was here was vaporized." Clove moves toward Cato. "Don't you remember what those three mines did to that one tribute?"

Cato falls silent, finally listening to reason. Clove goes on, "The one girl that set off the mines few years back and they were cleaning it up for the rest of the day?" She forms a detonation with her fingers. "Extra chunky, Cato. Whoever it was is gone for good."

Shaking his head, Cato relents. "Fine! Dead! Then what do we do now? We don't have any food! We can't even purify the water!" He points his sword at the murky lake. Bits of debris speckle its glassy surface.

"We sit and wait, until we figure out how to feed ourselves from the arena. Marvel? Didn't you take the course on survival?"

Marvel spits, "Pshhyuh. I'm from District One, Clove. What do you think?"

"Alright, well, let's sit down and figure out how to do it, because that's all we're going to be eating for a while. Tonight we can find out who's gone and who's still here so we know what we're dealing with."

My eyes strain to see Katniss in the tiny box on the side of the screen. Too many leaves block the view. She's not moving. Probably in shock.

I've been leaning forward, elbows upon knees, still trembling. My feet dangle, a hair too short to reach the floor. Katniss survived the blast, but she's less than a hundred yards away from the Careers and she's hurt worse than ever!

I think of Peeta, still hanging on to life by a thread. The Capitol had isolated a clip of him sleeping in the mud, calling out Katniss' name through his nightmares. They've run it in almost every replay.

Maybe this time, Katniss is too injured to escape as well. The tracker jacker stings wore off but, if she loses too much blood, that won't wear off. If she has a concussion and falls asleep, she may not wake up. Katniss will linger, perhaps longer than Peeta and then she'll die.

Madge rubs her palm across my back in empathy. She's concerned about me, but peering over her face, something besides compassion flickers deep within her elusive eyes. She stares off into the distance. "Madge?"

"Hmm?" The look is gone in a torrent of fluttery blinks.

"Do I have to let Katniss go?" Tears skip down my cheeks. I rub my wrist to wipe away them away. My throat clenches in anguish.

"You can never let her go, Prim." Madge consoles, gently. "She's always going to be a part of you." She thinks for a minute. "You... have to respect Katniss' choices." Her upper lip quirks and a tear of her own slips down one cheek. "You have to embrace what she's done for you."

I sit back, knocking over the rest of my tea that has laid dormant on the armrest. "Oh, whoops," I grumble. My head swims as though the mines tore me apart along with the supply dump. Madge helps me soak up the tea with a rag and we both start fixing dinner, begging for distraction. Not much is happening on the screen, anyway. I can't sit still for the dull ache in my belly.

We put together another stew from bits of rabbit meat, greens, and wild onions. I notice one shot on the screen. Rue, huddled in a tree somewhere, gripping a match in her hand, like it's her own soul. She's gathered a third pile of wood and readied it for a fire, except she hasn't lit it yet, possibly frightened by the explosions that rang through the entire arena. Maybe she thinks Katniss is dead.

Nothing could have prepared me for this. Katniss may very well be dead for all intents and purposes. Burned, stung, dehydrated, knocked senseless, chased, cornered, starved, cut by innumerable thorns... And that's just the physical trauma!

I'm handling the stress like a little girl. I am a little girl, though and so is Rue. Maybe it's just natural that she's frozen in a tree with no idea what to do. I was almost paralyzed by fear just walking to the stage. Rue managed to push back those natural terrors so far. It's possible they're getting to her, sapping her nerves.

I want to hate the Capitol, but I'm just too tired of feeling, too tired of being attached to the girl on fire who gave me everything she had. Mourning her death for two weeks, waiting for it to come, dreading it, watching her misery in the meantime, and hating myself for it! Madge is right.

"I can love you," I whisper, looking at Katniss' limp body half-hidden in the bushes. "But I can't die with you." Maybe Katniss twitches or it's my imagination. My voice breaks with sorrow, "You wouldn't let me." My eyes freely loose the pain and tears pour fresh. "Thank you, Katniss."

I bury my face in my hands and weep upon the kitchen table. Madge lets me bawl. She keeps stirring the pot over the coal fire. My shaking nearly pulls me off the chair. I cry for what seems like an hour, even though it's just a few minutes. Finally the surge of my emotional release subsides and I wipe my nose, sniffing, feeling like a mess.

Mom comes through the front door and we hug. She's been crying too and she's glad to see me and Madge. She kisses my head in the embrace. There's nothing we can say to make this burden lighter. That's just part of love; to mourn. At least I can grieve now and know that this self-loathing isn't necessary.

I go to the cupboard and pull out the last ball of cheese we have. I'll have to make more tomorrow. Lady didn't get milked yet today, either. There's always plenty to do.

The circumstance hasn't changed at all. I still want Katniss to win, to come home. Yet, I believe I can finally be at peace with my sister's sacrifice and can live with it, whether she manages to survive or not. I know that's what she would want. That's why she was so hard with Mom. That's why she has Gale coming by regularly to give us food. He doesn't have to, but he does. Katniss has given me everything she ever had to give and I will accept it as she wanted me to.

For the first time since the reaping, I feel the clear, scream-for-attention pang of hunger. In my woes, my stomach had to defer to my heart and the self-effacing patterns of my thoughts. My ribs and hips are more prominent than ever before. The Everdeen house has had plenty of food available, or at least what can be called plenty by Seam-dwellers. At the mayor's house I ate plenty because the tastes were tantalizing, so beyond my experience that the meal was branded into my memory. I just haven't felt like eating as much since then.

We sit down to eat, bowls steaming with vegetables and little chunks of meat. It's savory and settles into my stomach easier than anything since the Undersee's. Mom sets a roll near each of us and strikes up conversation.

"Madge, how has school been going?"

"Fine." Madge dips some chewy bread into the broth.

"And Prim? How was your day?"

"Awful," I mumble around a potato scrap and bite of rabbit. "School is boring even without the Hunger Games."

Mom beams at Madge. "Prim does very well. She gets good marks. In fact," Mom tears apart her own roll. "They have asked me about advancing her a year ahead so the classes are more challenging."

I stare at Mom. This is news and also unwelcome. School may be boring but most of my friends are the same year as me. Getting advanced would put me into a whole new group of people.

She's oblivious though, and turns back to Madge. "By the way, Madge, we never got a chance to thank your parents for the meal last week." Madge shrugs. "Could you offer them our appreciation?"

"Sure."

"Madge, I've been wondering something." My breath tastes of onion. "Does your family really do that dinner every year?"

She purses her lips and nods.

"Then why is it such a secret? No one I know has heard of that before."

Madge bites her lip and leans back in her chair. She answers hesitantly, "It's because our tributes don't win very often. Once the Games are over, the families don't remember the dinner because they remember however their kid died." Madge's face flushes faintly with embarrassment.

It was slightly uncomfortable at the dinner, until the food was brought out and everyone forgot about themselves. Still, it must be awkward for Madge to eat with the victim's families year after year.

Well, for what it's worth, she's helped me this year around. She has nothing at all to be ashamed of.


	13. Chapter 13

13

My collar itches, no matter how often my fingers yank it and try to fold it away from my neck. It's a nervous response, not a genuine problem. I'm anxious about this dinner, more troubled that my wife is coming. It's one thing to make my choices for myself, but what I do could have consequences for her.

Meyla and I have spoken only about the Hunger Games since I rejected her advances. At least there is something to discuss. This afternoon, Katniss destroyed the supply dump held by the volunteer tributes. I caught some of the events on my way home from the Peacekeeper's Main Office. Rue appeared to be safe as she could be in the arena, huddled into a tree.

I'm sitting at the dinner table, a computer powered on in front of me. The information gathered by the crawler is compiled into a preliminary analysis; the program is designed to allow active testing of any potential structure in a fictitious environment. A full render of the columns' integrity will take a few hours, and I have only a few minutes before Meyla is ready to leave.

Looking at the pillars, there are some flaws at the hub: pressure and vibration fractures. Nothing that would be terribly worrisome, had I an incentive to care about the people who work in that building. Three pillars, the ones proximate with the flex point of the hub, are showing minor damage. Overall, though, the structure is solid. It's probably been like this since the Dark Days ended. Most likely the fractures happened under extreme pressure from a bomb that was simply not powerful enough to really bring down the building.

The Capitol wouldn't have wanted to rebuild so many structures, already feeling itself wasting too much effort on the districts. No sense in blasting the buildings to ruin if all it takes to succeed is a propagandistic fear campaign in conjunction with a ruthless, infantry invasion. I'll report the damage, although I will not recommend any action to be taken. Capitol engineers reviewing my analysis will concur and schedule new tests a few years from now to ensure that the issues aren't progressing.

Meyla comes out of the bedroom, so I shut off the computer. My wife is gorgeous, wearing a dark blue dress that accents her silky hair and makes her green eyes stand out, lively. I sigh, looking at this beautiful woman. My collar rubs against my throat and I scratch my neck, agitated.

She purses her lips, frowning at me. Have I done something wrong? "What?"

Shaking her head, walking around behind my chair, she answers, "You shouldn't leer at me, Kippen."

My eyes close and I take a deep breath which fails to steady my reeling turmoil. She's right. If I won't let her share my heart then I shouldn't be letting it show that some part of me still wants to. Actually, much of my emotions still beg to be rescued by her warmth. In this moment, it's tempting to abdicate this wretched station of mourning father and resume the satisfying post of husband. She would forgive my hostility in a moment if I only asked her to. Meyla would kiss me and smile and I would know my darkness inside hasn't destroyed her devotion to me.

But I couldn't forgive myself for relenting to an easy path. I don't want to live in a world that doesn't have even a pretense or semblance of justice. And she can't abide the hatred I cling to. It's strange, understanding my wife and knowing I can do nothing to reunite us. The least I can do is treat her respectfully, as near lovingly as situation permits.

"You're right. I apologize, Meyla." I stand up and we head out the door, not touching. "How do you feel about this?"

"Captain Covas or us?"

"Covas." I don't want to talk about us. I am weak just thinking about it. If Meyla opens her mind to me about where our marriage is, it might break me faster than the Peacekeepers' henchmen.

"He's after something." We round a corner on the street. "Are you going to give it to him?"

"You think I should?"

"No, don't give up anyone or anything that you can help."

Instead, give up on our son because I can't help him? The right thing to do is to see this through to the bitter end, ensure that consequences match actions. Jura Penrose should be put to death for murder! Should I let the Capitol have anything that it decides to take away, because nothing we do to oppose them will work? Is that how mankind has always lived? Weren't there great societies of good people once?

"Kippen, you can't do what is right out of hatred."

"I'm not. I'm doing this because it's right. What I feel doesn't matter." It's a lie. Of course it matters. It's the only thing that has kept me crawling out of bed each morning, biting my tongue when I want to spit in the Peacekeepers' faces. It's a mixed blessing to have such a wise spouse.

"If that was true, you wouldn't push me away." She takes my arm in hers, I don't twist away. "I could support you if it was about doing the right thing."

We listen to the breeze and the conversations of others around us on the street as we stroll. Meyla's arm is against my ribs, warm and electrifying through my shirt. How do I reject this woman? It's so clear and so hard to grasp at the same time.

Scipio is dedicating his entire life to the cause of the underground, which still has not yet defined its goals as far as I am concerned. He has a clear sense of passion about the atrocities of the Capitol. Still, he maintains ardor in check, limiting his emotional involvement, zeal repressed even amidst his special knowledge.

He once told me about a family of four in District 7 who were all whipped to death because the father had insulted the mayor in public. And then there was the third year of the Hunger Games when a brother and sister from District 6 were both selected as tributes in the same year. Death caught them before they had to break their familial alliance, but the mental exercise of preparing to slay your own sibling created quite a stir that year. The Games were still fresh then, and the people of the Capitol weren't quite so vivacious about the murder-fest.

I don't need reasons to hate the Capitol or its minions, but maybe I shouldn't hate them. I should just dislike what they support and represent, want to change that status quo. If I could just get past my sons crooked grin, smiling at me from the staircase, bloody and gray, maybe I could start searching for peace.

I see no way that is going to happen. Not with my sister losing her mind in torment. Not while watching Rue being hunted like a pheasant. Not while Peacekeepers laugh and joke over ordinary people starving and working themselves to the bone to satisfy our Capitol masters.

We arrive at the plaza. Only a few people stand around the handful of screens broadcasting the Games. Little must be happening. The sun has almost set there in the arena, already having left District 11.

Captain Covas has been waiting in the plaza and waves us over. He's dressed in the plain clothes of a citizen, something enlistees aren't permitted to do. They have to wear an off-duty jumpsuit uniform to separate them from residents. After greeting us, Covas leads us to a street-side restaurant that serves mostly chicken and rice meals. Mostly it's just rice.

A handful of eateries in District 11 cater to the Peacekeepers. By comparison, this place is almost bland. It's just where people can go if they don't want to cook their own food for an evening. A few other customers are eating. Covas brings us to a table near the edge of the restaurant's undersized sidewalk pavilion.

A waiter brings us plates of the brown rice with some gravy, almost the same shade, a few chunks of chicken mixed in. There's no other food offered tonight, save fresh bread. Our only order is for drinks. I settle on an expensive glass of white wine, hoping the alcohol will numb my emotions, not my wits. Covas orders milk and Meyla asks for tea.

Before the waiter returns, we begin eating. The gravy is so thin, watered down nearly to broth in order to reduce cost, leaving the whole meal is practically tasteless. I chew chicken and mash the rice on the roof of my mouth.

"I appreciate you both taking the time to see me. I know an old geezer probably isn't the best company so it's kind of you." Covas' grins wryly, probably laughing inside again. He continues, "Meyla-Oh, I'm sorry. May I call you by your first name?"

"By all means," my wife exudes grace. My stomach is so knotted I don't know how she does it. The daily act burns me up.

"Excellent! I understand you're running a drive for donations for the girl competing in the Hunger Games this year?"

"Yes, that's right." She tries to corral more runny sauce back into the tan rice.

"I understand the donations have picked up some since she has allied with Katniss Everdeen." Covas pipes that ever-cheerful, scary breed of sinister.

"Quite a bit actually. People are confident that Rue has made very wise choices so far." Some people donated because they felt sorry for her, watching Rue ruefully admit that she hasn't seen any gifts yet at all. Seeder had yet to find a way to put the charity to my niece's benefit. "Our neighbors are very generous when presented with the opportunity."

"Kippen, I've heard that you made a substantial donation, yourself. Is that true?"

Where was Covas going with this? "What about it?" I can't think of anything illegal I have done. Maybe saving your money is a crime when the Peacekeepers decide it should be. Fine, I'll donate every cent in the lockbox to Rue's fund or to the Amaranths. I don't care.

"Oh, nothing at all, really. I've been considering making a modest donation myself. As an officer I've been assigned to this district for well over a decade. It would be nice to see the home team win once in a while, huh?" Covas winks and withdraws an envelope from beneath the table. "Strictly speaking, I don't care to be noticed in my philanthropy, so can I trust you two will maintain privacy in this matter?"

He slides the envelope to Meyla who accepts it. "Of course."

Didn't Scipio say Covas was going to be feeling me out? Gunning for me even? At first, it occurs to me that the envelope contains some sort of incriminating evidence. I watch as Meyla flips through the contents before stuffing it into her purse. Only bills. Is this a bribe somehow? He gave us money without any terms other than discretion. Not a bribe.

Covas making a donation for Rue? He's a betting man, then, I speculate. Wait. Betting on Rue? What would the chances be on that? It's uneasy to think about, but betting on Rue would probably face ridiculous odds. The probability of her winning is insanely remote, even with less than ten tributes remaining. At some point, Rue would have to kill someone.

"Thank you!" Covas beams, his age showing in crows-feet wrinkles around his eyes.

The drinks show up and I put away half of my glass in a single, stinging toss. I risk asking, "Hedging a gamble?"

Covas stares at me chewing a morsel of chicken. "I haven't placed any bets. It would be very nice to see that sweet little girl return home to her family. Somebody has to win. I'd prefer that it really mean something this year."

My shoulders shrug. "There's always one winner, sure." I finish the rest of the wine like it's a shot of whiskey. "But every year there're twenty-three losers. Twenty-three families that don't have anyone return."

He nods, faking a hint of sorrow in his eyes. "That's true. It's the price we all pay for the mayhem of the Dark Days."

I turn my wine glass around in my fingers, watching electric light curl through its gleaming edges. "You're from the Capitol, right?"

"Born and raised until I enlisted, that's right."

I continue to turn the glass and decide better than to reply. I want to ask exactly what price he has paid, what gives him the right to speak about Rue as if she means anything to him. He should have to answer what it costs anyone in the Capitol for the Games to continue year after year.

And not the financial expenses for the extravagant costumes and parties or the elaborately contrived arenas. Does anyone pay with their conscience? Scipio insists that many people in the Capitol are disgusted by the Games, yet are similarly powerless to do anything to stop their government, lucrative captives in some respects. The years I spent in the Capitol provided no evidence to think that about them.

Sure, I wasn't permitted to roam freely among the populace. During what contact there was, I never got any hint that anyone questioned the baseness of the Treaty of Treason. Such a concept wasn't even an issue considered, not even stumbled upon. Whatever moral guides Capitol people have with them at birth are dispelled after a few years being raised by decadent parents in a debauched, depraved, degenerate, self-indulgent, narcissistic, supercilious culture.

Having more than twenty years on me, Scipio still had less practical experience with the Capitol, having never been there and having no direct contacts within it. Of course those were both facts that I had to take on faith from his oft-shrouded statements.

Covas breaks the silence once more. "Alright, let me get something off my chest to be fair to you both." He sips the milk. "I wanted to do this away from the Office. My methods are a little outside of standard procedure sometimes and it tends to ruffle a few feathers."

My mind screams, you don't say?

He goes on, oblivious. "Kip, I've looked over some of your work from the past few years. Your interim audits have always come back very positive. The Capitol doesn't maintain a standing or anything, but if they did you... You would be near the top of the list of Capitol professionals in the Districts, based upon the audit scoring."

My fork pokes at chicken, gathering the bits of meat up. They taste better, or at least a bit fuller, than the rice. "It's probably just the buildings I have to work with."

Meyla runs her hand down my shoulder. "You've always been very smart, Kip." She's playing her part, the good wife in a family recovering from trials. I have a part to play too and I have to get into character, fast.

"That's right!" Covas points his fork at me. "Kippen Silvernale; graduated third of the class in your year at the University, special degree in structural engineering and architecture. Apparently you spent most of that time locked away in the school, studying like crazy." He eats piles of rice on the fork, winking my direction. "Not one to appreciate the benefits of the Capitol, hmm?"

Ok, Kip, I think. Time to let your character do the work for you. I can't tell him that I was disgusted with the Capitol and its horrible inhabitants almost as soon as I got there. I can't tell him that after two months, I vowed to leave the campus for the Capitol only if it was a matter of absolute necessity. Some of the other students availed themselves of the offered lifestyle. I intended to, except I was repelled by it from the get-go. "Well, University... students from the districts aren't permitted to many... areas of the Capitol... You know."

Covas nods. "That's true, but they are allowed to a number of places. You never really were interested in any of that, were you?"

I need to get away from this topic as quickly as I can. Mustering a grin, I force other lies through my lips. "School was a lot harder than you might think. I wanted to graduate top of the class. It took everything I had to get third."

That does the trick and Covas rocks in his chair laughing. I can feel my wife beaming by my side as she laughs along. My ears must be glowing bright red. I hated the University. I was studying, but only about half the time I was studying my subjects. I could have graduated top of the class, no problem. Instead, I spent most of the time in the school library, reading about history, finding things they never teach anyone these days, among the millions of dusty old volumes and digitized information.

"Fair enough, Kip. Look, I just want to be sure that you're going to be able to keep the Main Office standing. I have to work there, you know?"

"Oh, that place is-" I interrupt myself with thoughts and pause for a second. Something makes me lie again or at least hold back what I learned today. "The Main Office is a massive building. I barely have enough information to make a preliminary estimate on the structure's expected lifespan." I eat a forkful of rice and try to carve pensiveness into my expression. "I suppose, granted that it's been standing there for a hundred years or so, it will probably be fine for another hundred or so. Of course, that's all assumption without knowing anything substantial about status of the structure."

"Well, that's good to know. It wouldn't look good on your reports if it came down while you were working on it, am I right?" Covas lets the corners of his mouth angle up, but he's deadly quiet. This is not a joke, nor is the concept of sabotage alien to him.

Covas watches me mull over his statement. I stumble, scrambling to think of what to say. I'm still struggling to understand exactly what Covas means and what I have to say to throw him off when Meyla answers for me. "It would be worse if they had to dig him and his reports out of the rubble." She laughs and kisses my cheek. Probably a tad overly-romantic for our age.

I manage a chuckle, even though Covas is still watching me. "Yeah, that wouldn't help my career one bit!"

The Captain breaks a faint smile though he doesn't laugh at the macabre humor. "It's a good thing for us that you studied so hard, then."

"What's a budding engineer to do?"

He points his fork at me. "You're tenacious, I'll give you that. You should've become a cop. We could use some detectives with a drive to find the truth."

My face flushes. I went to him time after time, begging that he take my son's case seriously, never with a result.

Covas eats the remainder of his rice. "It's hard to find good men in the corps, these days. A lot of these boys just aren't interested in what's right." You never were, my mind growls. "Someone with your intellect could be very useful, I believe." Covas finishes his milk. He leans forward and lowers his voice. "If it were up to me, you'd be put to better use than repairing structures that have survived a century after being damaged."

"Maybe I could investigate accidents," my quip flows out before I can stop it. "In case they weren't accidents."

The Captain sighs and leans back. "Now, Kip. Do you really want to go through all this agai-"

"I go through it every single day!" I shout, all control lost in a moment. "Do you know what it's like to wake up every single morning with the dread of another day choking every single breath?"

Covas glares at me and moves his lips without speaking, _yes_.

My tirade surges as if the pressure valve can't be closed now. "My son was murdered!" I slap my palm against the table, rattling the silverware. "And you did nothing! Murdered in cold blood and you buried it!" With every word I know I am sealing my death warrant and probably Meyla's too.

The other conversations in the pavilion have died; a very public silence surrounds us. Everyone is staring at our table. I wave my hand at the sidewalk. "Do all these people matter, Vol? Do any of them matter! Or is it just whatever you have to do to keep what you have, and the rest of us are just the chattel of Panem?" My voice cracks with rage and I finally manage to suppress my outburst, to find that character I'm supposed to be. I'm shaking, gasping for air, adrenalin searing through my blood stream, heartbeat crackles like thunder in my temples.

Captain Covas stares icicles through me, taking note of the other people on the pavilion; probably to be sure they witness my flogging. Meyla reaches over and touches the back of my neck, her fingertips playing with my hairline. She knows it will calm me, even though I have already committed the worst crime in Panem; standing up against authority. The sensuality of my wife's touch instantly calms my pulse, but my chest still heaves, now with fear for what I have done to this woman, whom I still love, still want to be happy, regardless of my choices.

Then Covas does something really unexpected. He leans forward again, almost whispering. "Kip, I'm trying to play this whole thing low key because I really do like you, but you have to work with me on this." He leans back and breaks into a superficial grin. "Well, I think you've had enough wine for the evening! You're talking crazy and someone might get the wrong idea if we let you go on and on about nothing."

Slowly, the conversations resume across the pavilion. Attention turns away from us, though we're never far from a glance. Meyla's magic has worked and I'm back to my reserved normal, now fearing Covas even more. What game is he playing exactly? One minute he's trying to trap me into condemning the Capitol and the next he's trying to keep me from doing the same very thing!

The wine was a bad idea, I conclude. Alcohol is not available in vast amounts for most people and not many have a high tolerance. I hadn't had much to drink for a number of months, and I don't feel terribly buzzed but that's the catch of it. With little experience and a hollow diet, you rarely have any comprehension of where your limit is and whether you've gone past it or not. A single glass of wine? With half the rice still on my plate, maybe the alcohol was strong enough, undiluted by the meal. It only takes a little ice to slip down a staircase.

Covas counts out enough money for the tab and tip, tossing it to the center of the table. While he stands, he whispers again, "Get a hold of yourself, Kip. Otherwise I'll have to get hold of you."

Meyla bids Covas farewell in her gentle voice and sits, waiting for me to decide to stand. My legs are weak. Confusion saps me, the buzz is still growing. I can feel it now. My head aches from the emotional outburst, and I remember that wine gives me a hangover, even if I only have a little. The waiter asks if we would like anything more so I ask for coffee and water. Meyla adds a few bills to the cash on the table.

Think, Kippen. Think! What was Covas' angle? My outburst was plenty enough to garner arrest and interrogation under duress. Probably, it was enough to be executed, especially in District 11, where the mayor seems to be little else than disgusted that he has to live in a district and hasn't yet been invited to become a Capitol resident.

The water and coffee arrive. I chug the former, sip the later, unable to tell if they're diluting my buzz. The lights aren't swimming in my vision any worse than they had been before. It will pass.

Meyla and I stick around just long enough to finish the piping hot brew. As we're leaving I wonder if we'll even make it home or if Covas is gathering an enlistee force together. It's unlikely, I suppose. If he didn't have a team waiting on hand, retribution will come later on.

It's mortally quiet during our walk through the streets of Three Corners. From perhaps a third of the houses and apartments, soft music can be heard. There's a new song going around about Katniss Everdeen, and her lovesick admirer, Peeta Mellark. As much as people want to root for someone from their own district, fanfare for the Girl on Fire has caught on in almost every district, or that's the news at least. I even saw one young girl wearing a homemade mockingjay pin fashioned out of scrap metal. It was decently well constructed and proudly worn.

About three blocks from home, Meyla finally speaks. "Do you feel better?"

I don't know if she means the wine or the dinner or the situation or... "About what?"

"Did being honest help?"

It could be the euphoric edge of drunkenness except the buzz is worn down pretty far now. Despite my new concerns and confusions, it did feel good to get my opinions across to Covas, to tell him to his face what I've been itching like a madman to scream for months. The release actually felt fantastic, aside from the adrenalin. Apprehension for the consequences kept me from noticing. "Yeah, it kinda did."

Meyla reaches for my hand and I don't resist, feeling her fingers tangle in mine. Her skin is soft, though the harvest season is coming up and she will develop calluses again. Hunger for her all these months emphasizes her femininity. The scent of her perfume dominates my thoughts, driving away this evil, precarious situation. By the time we walk back into our dark house, I'm overpowered, standing in the doorway. Suddenly my imploding world is distant and my wife replaces everything. What reasons could I possibly have for leaving this wonderful creature?

Meyla walks to the counter and puts her hands on it, letting her head hang, hair shining in waves. "Kip? Can you try something for me?" She turns around. Tears have streaked lines on both her cheeks. "Can you give me one night where you just love? Where we're a family again?" Meyla raises her hands slightly at her sides. "I have to know we tried. I have to know that you tried to love me again."

"I do love you, Mey. You know that."

She puts one hand on her hip and the other over her forehead. Her voice breaks with dismay. "No, I don't know that, Kippen!" She sobs quietly for a breath. "Sometimes-Sometimes, the only thing I get from you is coldness and hate."

Meyla takes a step closer holding one hand outstretched toward me. "I need you to love me tonight and have nothing else. Just please try this for me?"

Another contemptible debate commences in my thoughts, but I cast it away. My wife, the most important person to my life, is asking me for what is her right, what is my obligation and I know it in my bones without thinking about it. It's like the way cool water soothes on a blistering summer day. It doesn't need to be reasoned into sensibility, because it is perfect.

I feel my knees tremble that I have confounded myself out of this obligation, this joy of marriage. She told me that I can't do what is right out of hate and I understand that now. The right thing, tonight and maybe every other night is to be my wife's dedicated, loving husband, the shoulder she leans on and the broken soul she works to mend.

I stand up straight, taking her hand and look down into her eyes, holding her. "Yes, Meyla. I do love you. I'm sorry that I haven-"

"Shh," She puts a finger to my lips. "Leave it outside, dear."

I shift around her finger and press into a longing kiss, on this night letting my walls of solitude crumble under the force of her desire. Something deep inside me twitches. Tonight, we're married again and I banish everything from my mind except for her. I will unpack everything from my soul and I will do this for her because she deserves it. And I want to. I miss her so terribly! How could I have pushed her away for so long?

As we stumble toward the bedroom, I sneak kisses at her neck and she giggles with a wonderful satisfaction that is the death of unrequited love. To see her smile and hear her laugh again inoculates me against habit. I never thought it possible, but here Meyla is, making everything alright, making life wonderful once more. Her eyes pause the moment, glowing with her desire. I've taken the wrong path this whole time.

Our bedroom is dark. A soothing patter of rain dances across the window, broken clouds let a faint shine of the moon peek through. Meyla's pale skin catches the sheen of silvery glow. She's sleeping on her side; her shoulder elegantly curves in the dark. I kiss her soft skin, hoping my tenderness will seep into her dreams.

I can't sleep. Caressing my wife gave me a rush of bliss that felt in the moment like it washed out every grain of anger I had stored up and coddled for months. Now that the flood of passion receded, of course everything was still there, stinking in the comparison of the gift my wife shared with me.

Meyla is healed of everything except my distance. On the other hand, I'm broken, unsure of whether I can be fixed or should be. How did she get over Mason's death, I muse.

How? I stand and pull back further the single curtain, watching water drip down the pane, distorting the glittery-blue landscape of nighttime Three Corners. I guess you really can't ever move on when your child has died. You just... endure it.

There are parents who break, every single year. Children go to the Hunger Games and it permanently destroys their families. Though the Capitol would refuse to share the information, I suspect they keep suicide statistics of relatives to defeated tributes.

Because it is designed to keep the districts subservient to the Capitol, the Hunger Games tread the fine line of shocking and scaring people just enough so that they submit under the economic, political, and social tyranny of the state. On the other side, if they go much further, the risk is in rallying the people together. Life must be harsh and brutal, only that people be dispirited, not invigorated.

For a system that appreciates with such wild animalism, the Capitol is oddly nuanced in its methods and reason. That's why it has lasted under this system for seventy-four years. Beastly power mixed with intellectually inhuman tactics.

The curtain falls back in place when I let it go. Meyla hasn't moved from her peaceful rest. I pull the bed covers up over her bare arms, brushing my fingers across her hair, tucking it behind an ear.

I could get there, someday. There's always that chance, I guess. Mason's crooked smile will never go away and Rue's scorching eyes probably won't either. Still, I have to try. Meyla is right. I can't bring justice to this world. It has vomited fairness out, gagging. Come to terms with that, somehow. She'll help me and I will certainly need it. I'm too weary of this game with Covas. There has to be a way out from this suffocation!

Rapid pounding on the front door jabs me out of thought. I pull on a pair of pants and a shirt. It's sometime past two in the morning. Meyla's hand-wound watch is no where to be found.

Just before I open the front door, I flip the kitchen light switch. An ochre pallor flickers, filling the room. Electricity is quite available during the Hunger Games, if a little disturbing because of the television content. Having light from a non-flammable source is an enormous convenience.

Marek Amaranth comes in carrying Wren in one arm and Breck in the other, both sound asleep. The light rain must be harder to the east over the Amaranths' apartment. Everyone is dripping wet. Hannah follows Marek in, struggling to hang on to Sythia. Chish and Lilja step in after their parents. I take Sythia from my sister, "What's going on?"

Hannah wipes hair out of her face, says nothing. Marek whispers so the kids aren't awakened. "I thought it would be better if we could be here for the next few hours. Is that alright?"

"Yeah, sure. You're always welcome here. What's the matter?"

My sister sits down at the table and bites her fingernails, staring into empty space. Marek leans over to me. "Those three Career kids captured Rue about an hour and a half ago."

I lean against the wall and take a deep breath so as not to drop Sythia. Lilja and Chish sit on either side of their mother solemnly. They know what's going on, why they're up so late. Those families that are undone by the forced tragedy of the arena return to mind. There are five more kids Hannah and Marek have to care for and still the twenty more reapings they'll face.

Marek sits down trying to maintain his composure. I have to ask. "Is she...?"

"No. They're ahm." His lip shakes. "They want to ah, use her as bait to catch that other girl." Marek looks up at me, his eyes glossy. "My little girl, Kip! What do I do?"

I don't answer. There's nothing you can do and I especially can't say that to him. Sorry, Marek, it's just how the Games work. You have to watch and that's that. Nightmares come to mind, the one where I'm in the plaza and I see Mason standing there waving. I wave back and scream and holler, running toward the Justice Building, but Jura Penrose pushes my son and my sluggish legs just can't reach him before he crunches into the stairs.

Sythia coughs in my shoulder, still napping. Her hand-me-down pajamas are patched all over, wet from the walk. I put my free hand on my in-law's shoulder. "Lemme take care of the kids, Marek." He looks away to hide his sorrow from me and his children. Hannah is still dazed. At least she's stopped chewing on her fingernails. She's holding her children's hands now.

Meyla comes out of the bedroom wearing an old bathrobe that has seen better days. Her eyes curl upward empathetically. I shake my head. Sythia wakes up groggy while I relay to my wife what Marek told me.

Meyla and I take the kids one by one and change them into dry clothes. We really don't have anything that fits, so some of Mason's clothes suffice. We put the three youngest in our own bed and the other two in our Mason's old bed.

By the time we get back to the kitchen, Hannah and Marek are holding each other, neither crying. Marek gently runs his hand down his wife's head and back. I know this. I remember from the handful of times Meyla and I tried to maintain each other those weeks after the funeral. There isn't sufficient consolation for the pain. There is _nothing_ that makes it alright.

Meyla begins making tea while I check the broadcasts. Sure enough, Rue is there, unconscious, little feet and hands tied up in the webbing of a net. The Careers huddle together near her discussing how to trap Katniss. Cato wants to kill my niece and be done with it, while Marvel from District 1 insists she's the 'perfect trap'.

Katniss is still in the miniature gulch, passed out, having covered herself with a makeshift blanket of leaves. The other tributes haven't changed. Peeta is stunningly resilient. It's amazing that he's still alive. He's hardly moved that I can see.

Verona from District 5 is controlling her diet oddly, senselessly. She's waiting until she gets fidgety and then she swallows a few berries. It's as if she's never been hungry before and doesn't know how to ration effectively. Everyone in District 5 has been hungry at some point, even if it's not a regular state of being.

Thresh is still in that tall field of wheat, hiding somewhere, waiting out the rest of the tributes.

Is that all there are left? It seems so fast even though it's been more than a week since the bloodbath. So many always die in the first few days, and then the Games drag on forever. There was one year when the Games lasted almost four straight weeks, from the time of the bloodbath to conclusion. Time has been screaming past though, this time around.

We're not in control. We're less than servants to our masters in the Capitol and in the Main Office and the Justice Building and the mayor's mansion. I have been to all of those places and I have intimate knowledge of three of them. My stomach remembers how it feels selfish to abandon Mason so that my wife and I can live happily, at least happily when we're not thinking about our family.

As my eyes gaze on little Rue's limp form, all the rotten logic roars back. I have a rare and unique opportunity to actually strike at the powers that be, to maybe move them, if just a little. And if someone else can move them a little further, others may follow suit. All it will take for the whole Capitol to fall is someone willing to take the first stand.

I'm willing.

Meyla leads Hannah and Marek into our living room, each holding a steaming cup of tea. I stand to mute the television so we won't have to listen to the Careers discuss ways to kill Rue. My wife hands me a cup of tea and kisses me on the forehead, my gut twists as around a knife. I want the closeness we had once, that I caught glimpse of again. No decisions, I think. I'm just one man. What can one man do that's more important than love his wife?

There are bigger matters to worry about. Hannah and Marek are going to need a lot of help to get through this, if there is any light at the end of the tunnel at all. I lost my only child. My sister will lose one of six. That's not to minimize the tragedy. Rather it's an understanding that the other children will need their parents as much as ever. There's no break from raising your family.

This situation strains at me. Caffeine from the tea keeps me awake for an hour or so. Hannah and Marek never even touch theirs and are sleeping against each other on the couch. Meyla was stroking my hair when I went to sleep and she's there when I awake.

I love the smell of her hair. Lilac-something; it's a peaceful scent that I sense prior to becoming lucid. It salves my mind and shifts my troubled dreams to a more pleasant scene from which I awake. Meyla has her eyes closed, as she holds my head in her lap leaning against the arm of our second couch. At first, it appears she's asleep, but when I sit up she looks at me, loving eyes fraught with fatigue.

The television remains on, muted, still night there. Morning has begun to glow through our windows. Another day. I stretch, bones cracking. My neck is stiff and I bob my head around trying to loosen it up. My entire body feels worn.

"Rough night, huh?" Meyla asks turning to lean her back against me.

I twist so Meyla slides down until I cradle her upper body against myself. "It started out pretty nice."

She smiles and closes her eyes. "Thank you," she whispers.

My kiss is gentle and slow and she pushes back with her lips until I draw away. Then my wife rolls a bit more so her head lies on the cushioned armrest. Her breath warms my side, makes my heart shiver.

In the heat of my wife's presence, I drift back into sleep and nightmares. Peacekeepers are chasing through the fields and forests, weapons raised and firing, thundering bullets rip through the air. Dashing through the woods, my clumsy feet stumble over every single twig, root, and rock on the ground. Still, my flight manages to evade the horde of hunters for the moment.

Then I sight another me. It's just a dream, I know, yet it's paralyzing. There I am, right in front of me, stalking through the forest wearing my same shirt and pants. Here I am watching this odd man, myself, his face bent with rage and in his hands he carries a broad metal pipe. He turns and sees me, letting out a wild, guttural howl.

Time to run again; feet more sluggish than ever, even snagging in the mud now, with every step. My gait is impossibly slow! The Peacekeepers should have caught me by now. With only a hair's breadth to spare, I dodge each savage swing of the pipe by my self/pursuer. More gunfire erupts and I know the Peacekeepers have picked up the trail. My other self doesn't care. He keeps swinging with every ounce of strength, meaning for the first clean strike to be a death blow!

Someone touches my face and the nightmare evaporates into my living room. Lilja looks at me, her nose wrinkled in confusion. "You were talking in your sleep, Uncle Kippy." I bet I was. I run a hand across my forehead. My palm glistens with sweat. My breath is heavy.

Meyla is still sleeping across my lap so I tilt her, sliding out from beneath her limp form. Marek and Hannah are both still out cold, having barely moved. Exhaustion both emotional and physical will do that to you. If you can get to sleep, it can become almost comatose.

Rue's now webbed to the ground in the net. Only one Career is watching her: Marvel, District 1. Cato and Clove must have decided to keep hunting Katniss by night. They had no luck because they settled down for sleep. Clove keeps watch as the sun begins its climb into the sky. Katniss is moving now, her head bobbing strangely. I wonder if she's deaf from the landmine shockwaves. Probably her left ear, at minimum.

Lilja grabs my hand and leads me into the kitchen where Sythia is helping Breck sip tea. Chish and Wren are still asleep in the bedrooms. Sythia says hi. "Morning, Syth. You guys ok?"

I open the cupboard to see what sort of food we have. There are some cans of preserves and soups. My fingers settle on most of a loaf of bread wrapped in foil. My movements feel numb, still plagued by the nightmares of both the unconscious and waking worlds. Sythia states solemnly, "Rue's in trouble."

The bread slices easily. "Yes, that's... true." I open another cupboard, retrieving apricot jam. The kids will like that. It's very expensive. While I spread it on three slices, my mind churns, trying to think of what to tell them. Lilja is only nine years old and Sythia is six, I'm pretty sure.

Lilja asks, "Why do they make us go to the Hunger Games, Uncle Kip?"

I mull over the question, setting two plates of jam bread in front of my nieces. Breck squirms in my arms as Sythia hands him to me, although he is instantly satiated by the bread as I tear little pieces off for him.

Lilja may be starting to understand how things work in Panem even if she can't understand why. Once you get to the age where you are in the reaping, it just gnaws at you. You don't understand why things are this way. Maybe you read the Treaty of Treason and the history lessons. It doesn't add up.

In the mind of a child, people should just get along. There's no real need for strife so nothing can explain why strife exists. By the time you squeak past your last reaping much of that childlike idealism is peeled away. You see the Capitol for what it is: vindictive, sadistic, cruel for the entertainment of cruelty, greedy for the spoils of slave labor driven literally under a lash, the atrocious list is endless.

Most of all, for the survivors, the final message of the Hunger Games experience is to illustrate that the Capitol maintains and exercises an absolute sovereignty over the lives of everyone who lives in Panem. It insists to us that any breath we exert is at the pleasure of the powers that be. Even if we know, implicitly, that we breathe because our own minds tell us to, the message is one of total dependence upon these people who were merely born in a different circumstance. Trying to stand up against it is like trying to shout storm clouds back to the horizon as they pelt you with hail and lightning.

You can't say anything like that to children though. Even if they would understand, it's up to Marek and Hannah to teach their children the way of things. "They think the world is better this way, dear." The answer is almost a non sequitur. 'They do what they do, because they do it.'

Lilja's nose wrinkles at that thought until another taste of the sweet jam snatches her focus. Breck struggles to keep the bits of bread in his mouth. I dab a cloth napkin as his face to clean up the smears.

Sythia swallows the last of her slice and asks in her tiny voice, "Rue's really not coming back, ever, ever, is she?"

My throat closes up tight and I can't speak. I need to answer, to say something! Then Chish's voice perks up from the doorway, "What's that?" He points toward Lilja's remaining bite of bread.

I wave the boy over and hand his little brother to him as he sits down. The kids can all have another slice of bread. Seconds will have a thinner spread of jam since my knife is scraping at the bottom of the jar to use it all. I set two slices aside for Wren and another slice for the four adults to split. A little sugar might do well on the palate. This is sure to be a torturously hard day.

Chish passes Breck back to me as soon as I set down his plate. The seven-year-old stares wide-eyed at the slices of bread. "Is that all just for me?"

"They sure are, Chish. Dig in."

Wren comes in, sees the meal, and sits down silently, patiently, amiably. I smile and set the plate before her, lighting up her entire world. Breck fidgets and wants to crawl around. He can in the master bedroom because it's the only room in the house with carpet. He roams and tries to stand up, tugging on the blankets of the bed. Not quite walking yet but the little guy is giving it everything he's got.

Behind me, Sythia asks, "Uncle Kip? Do you think the moon has any trees?" I laugh and turn around. Sythia explains, "One of the boys at school says the moon has moon trees, and that's why it's gray because the leaves are gray."

"What do you think, Sythia?"

Her face scrunches and she tilts her head. "I've never seen a gray tree before, Uncle Kip."

I chuckle and sit down beside Wren who listens intently as she savors the jam. "Well, there aren't any moon trees, even on the moon. Do you kids know that people once went to the moon?"

"Uncle Kiiiiip." Lilja's voice pouts with peaks and valleys. "No body ever went to the moon!"

"No, I'm telling you. It's true!" The two girls shake their heads and Chish chews thoughtfully. "You don't believe me?" Of course they don't. That's the sort of history left out in schools. The sort I had to teach myself while I had access to the archives in the library. Men did once go to the moon and they did scientific experiments and they came back safe and sound, leaving behind flags that are probably still there. That was generations and civilizations ago.

Marek and Hannah come through the doorway, rested and restless. Taking up my offer the spot on the bench and they squeeze in. I cut up the slice of bread and give them each a quarter.

Once breakfast is wrapping up, Meyla awakens and donates our last quarters of bread to my sister and her husband. That's fine with me, since I don't feel very hungry.

The kids stay in the kitchen, playing with a board game that has been dusty since Mason was fourteen. We adults sit in the living room and talk. Katniss is making her way back to the rendezvous point, unaware that Rue won't show up. My niece is still tied up in the net. Marvel is hiding in a tree where my niece can't see him. He's watching the third pile of kindling, a short walk away from the trap, waiting for Katniss. The other two Careers are still resting. Now it's Cato who is keeping watch.

We talk about the weather and about the Amaranth children and how each of them does in school. They're very smart children, earning good grades in every subject. Conversation is uncomfortably dry.

The room falls silent. Everyone watches the screen, nothing changes. Verona gathers food with a few new supplies she must have scavenged from the wrecked pile. They're burnt and ugly, yet useful. Thresh eats more berries and oats. Katniss walks barefoot in a creek, cocking her good ear to the fore. She shoots an arrow into the water at one point and later on repeats, spearing decent sized fish. The Girl on Fire pulls the scales off one and eats it without even cooking, leaving the intestines in the slow moving water. It turns my stomach to see that, but Katniss is in terrible shape, her face bruised and her ribs stabbing horribly outward.

Rue is in one of the corner screens, still sleeping. "How?" I whisper.

Marek stutters in reply, "They-ah-she was trying to sleep and they saw her in the tree near the-the firewood. She tried to get away and got over, maybe two branches, but the girl-the one that throws knives?" Marek sucks in a whimper. "She... She hit Rue with a stick and… knocked her out."

That's all it takes. A single momentary lapse of concentration can be your undoing. Rue isn't dead. If Katniss ever finds her, the Girl on Fire will have to beat the trap and then when all the other tributes are dead and gone, Rue will have to beat Katniss. No, don't try to get your hopes up.

Even if Rue wins, the terror goes on! That little girl from District 12 won't have her big sister coming home. And all the other families who sent tributes this year will have that empty feeling I know too well; a missing child. Twenty-three lives obliterated each and every year, even more the one year when they had twice as many tributes compete. I was seventeen that year. They called it the second quarter quell because it was the fiftieth anniversary of the Treaty of Treason and the Hunger Games. Every twenty-five years they 'spice up' the Games with special rules. That year two boys and two girls were sent as tributes from each district. Forty seven out of forty eight children preordained to die.

Sometimes the kids can become used to seeing the Games, so long as none of their friends have to go. The massacre at the cornucopia was so dreadful that no one in my class could focus for weeks. Everyone was dizzy from the revolting display, even the most callous people. We feel that way now. Meyla is brushing my sister's hair; both of them stare at the little girl in the corner-shot.

Marek says, "You know, about a week before the reaping, I took Rue and Lilja into Three Corners to buy some food. And we picked up some oranges and apples and I cut one of them in half for the girls." He shifts in the couch to sit up. "Lilja wasn't happy because her piece was a little smaller than the one I gave to Rue. I was going to tell her not to worry about it, but Rue traded her before I could say anything." On the screen, she looks so thin and frail, hardly the sort of person who could be so mature and selfless. Marek adds, "I know she used to give the other kids some of her food. She tries to hide it but... I'm dad! I catch most of these things."

It used to bother Hannah. She would complain that her oldest daughter is not eating enough and keeps sneaking food from her plate to others. Can you tell your child to stop being generous, though? Rue signed up for tesserae without anyone telling her to.

When the Amaranths eat here, Meyla and I always make sure there is plenty more food than needed, more than we could afford, even. My wife and I eat very lightly for a week or more after to get back on our budget. Even so, Rue always made sure the other children had first say before she took the last biscuit or the last spoonful of apple sauce. "I'll be brave, Uncle Kippen." Her eyes pierce through my stomach, shaving away at the confused mess in my heart. I'll be brave.


	14. Chapter 14

14

No matter how much goat's milk there is, people always want more. Delicate foods are almost impossible to get in District 12, at least for people who work in the coal mines. Lady's milk is treated like an expensive candy and I'm happy to sell to anyone who wants it. Suffice it to say, the trades are a breeze as usual. Something is different too, a weight that has lightened in my stomach.

While heading home out of the business district, I notice Gale strolling toward the Seam as well. "Gale!" I wave, my hand only as high as his eyes. He crosses the street to walk with me.

"Hi, Prim."

"What are you doing here? I thought you would be out hunting like you do."

"Oh, well, I was but," Gale points to the southwestern horizon. "It's looking like pretty heavy rain coming up." I hadn't noticed the dark clouds broiling and rolling this way, just the early fall breeze. It could be a chilly rain. "How are you handling everything, Prim?"

"Better, I think. Madge watched the Games with me yesterday and we talked a bit. I think she really helped." I tell Gale about what Madge had said and about how I decided to accept Katniss' choices.

Gale listens and then grunts. "Huh, that's strange."

"What?"

"I just came from the Undersee's. The strawberry bushes aren't too far from the fence so I did manage to pick some of them for the mayor. But I also wanted to see if Madge was okay."

I glance at Gale who is lost in thought. "What? I thought you didn't like Madge?"

Gale blushes somewhat. "It's not that I dislike her... It's..." He looks around and thinks better of continuing. "Madge ran out of school today crying. She even skipped the last class. That's not like her at all and... Honestly, I do give her a hard time about being the mayor's daughter and I kinda feel bad about it."

"Crying? Why was she crying?"

"I don't know. One of the guys in her class told me that she was being quiet like she always is." Gale bites his lip. "I just... I didn't realize she was that close to Katniss."

Madge wasn't though. They were distant. I wonder if she feels so isolated since Katniss was the only friend she had. How odd that would be. Your closest friend so distant that she barely knows you?

Then Gale voices another possibility. "Or maybe she feels guilty that she'll never come close to being selected in the reaping."

Still Madge's response to the Hunger Games this year has been intense. I remember the way she glared at the screen as if she could set the television on fire with her concentration. "Maybe she just wants Katniss to come home." I muse.

"That would be good," Gale agrees.

"Did you see her at the Undersee's?"

"Only for a few seconds, just long enough to make the trade. She didn't say anything."

"Hmm." We arrive at the Seam and I invite Gale into the house for some milk. "Gale? How are you dealing with this?" His expression quirks as if he doesn't understand what I'm asking. "How do you manage to do all this hunting and gathering and schoolwork and take care of me and Mom, on top of your family? Do you just ignore the Games as much as you can?"

Gale looks at the milk in his cup and ponders a reply. I can't help but think about the last words he wanted to say to Katniss. I wonder if my sister had heard those words before and if she had said them to Gale too. "Prim... We do what we have to do." He sips from the cup and hesitates saying, "Do... Do you want to know a secret?" I nod and sit down to listen. "I miss Katniss more than I miss my father. It's like having no air to breathe." He contemplates his next sentence. "I don't have a choice but to think about it, to catch every second of the broadcast that I can."

I drink the rest of my own milk. Gale watches the screen. Katniss is waiting in a tree where Rue is supposed to return. The two Careers are stalking, no where near the creek-side blind where Katniss hides. Marvel waits almost unmoving, which is really a feat in itself.

"If I could-" Gale stops himself and looks away.

"What? Tell me." I'm impatient. I don't like to think anyone knows anything that they aren't going to tell me. It's frustrating when people whisper around you because you feel left out. Adults do that a lot.

"If it weren't for the rules, I would've volunteered for you so Katniss wouldn't have to go."

A lilt of fault creeps through me again. I suppress it. Gale didn't mean to say anything except that he loves Katniss just like I do. Well, not exactly like I do. "Are you and Katniss, uh...?"

"No. We're close but she doesn't want a boyfriend." He looks down. "There are days where it burns me up and... I try to vent by talking about the Games and the Capitol. You can talk in the woods without worrying, you know? She doesn't seem to mind-didn't." He picks a tiny briar off his overcoat and tosses it toward the kitchen wastebasket. "She doesn't talk much about the Capitol, even though she feels the same way."

Katniss treats Gale differently than all the other boys. Even so, it's impossible to tell if it is tinged with romance because she doesn't really have other boys for friends. If she makes it back, Katniss ought to open up to the idea of being married one day. At least I hope she does. I know, I want to marry someone someday.

My father was my favorite person in the world. Things have been different since he died. Not altogether bad. Different.

There was one day; it was my fourth birthday, when Dad and Mom took Katniss and me to pick out an outfit. A new one! One that no one had ever worn before. I like light blue and picked out a light blue blouse and skirt with a fancy white lace along the bottom. At the time I had no concept of money. Mom and Dad must have saved for a long time for that present.

We were walking home as a family and singing. Dad's voice was soft and smooth; everyone loved to hear him sing. People smiled at us as we passed by the businesses and houses. Some folks waved. I even got comments on how cute the new clothes looked on me.

Between verses, Dad swept me into his arms and held me close, fingers tickling at my belly. I laughed and snuggled into his neck, feeling the scratchy prickle of his stubble. Even two-thirds of my life later, I can still remember the secure warmth of his cheek against mine. How my side squirmed when his gentle voice graced past my ear. Dad's lovely voice always tickled at me when he held me.

The walk home took a long time which was fine by me. A marvelous, spring sunset joined my family's lullabies. Katniss was only eight and wasn't able to keep our parents' pace, so we took our time. I contentedly fell asleep to the chorus, arms wrapped around Dad's neck.

When we got home, there was another present of orange juice shared amongst the family. It was so unique and sweet! Those days were full of bliss. I try to remember what happened to that outfit once I outgrew it. Sold like the others after Dad passed away, I suspect.

Allen Mellark stops by with a basket full of rolls. "Primrose," he offers the basket through the doorway. His voice is quiet and sharp. "Dad said to bring these here."

I take it. "Thank you, Allen. Do you want to come in and get a glass of milk?"

He's tempted, but I know what's going through his mind. It's not normal that the families of competing tributes would interact, much less be friendly. Never mind that the families aren't competing, just the tributes. Most likely both tributes will die under the Careers. Still, because we each hope that our own relative can win; the Everdeens and the Mellarks have a wedge driven between us.

Mr. Mellark and I are on very good terms, except he doesn't talk much at all and even less since the reaping. These past few weeks have been so difficult for me to get over the Katniss' selection that I have tacitly avoided the topic with the people who buy Lady's milk and cheese.

The baker's son turns down the invitation and walks away from our house. I call after him, "Allen, wait." He half turns around. "I'm real sorry about Peeta." He has hardly moved in days. Probably still bleeding, starving and certainly thirsty. "He's a good boy." Allen raises his eyes to meet mine, nods, and continues on into the rain.

After a while, Katniss climbs down from the tree and ventures back into the woods. Rue didn't show up, of course, so Katniss must know something is wrong. She moves deeper into the forest watchful for any ambush.

Mom comes home and we start dinner. Gale decides to go home to his family. This could be it, I think. Marvel's trap is too perfect. He's going to kill Katniss and then he's going to kill Rue. I know Katniss wants me to make peace with this, and in time maybe I can, but when I have to watch it... No guarantees.


	15. Chapter 15

15

The kids were restless. After they got home from school Meyla and I took them to the only playground in Three Corners. It's never quite busy. Too many families have no time for play. The children managed to burn some energy before it started raining again. Meyla takes them home while I pick up food for dinner.

A little meat, some fruit, and a lot of extra bread. Bread in District 11 is usually rye and crescent shaped because of the sort of grain that is most commonly provided for sale here. I buy the gritty, cheap stuff so there can be plenty. This afternoon, I decided not to worry about the money I had saved up. My salary is sufficient and stable, so long as I can get back to work and overcome my every instinct and Covas' prowling game, the ongoing mystery of which is that I haven't been arrested yet.

Walking through the doorway, with cloth bags loaded full, the sudden noise of children squabbling and playing overpowers me. How in the world do Hannah and Marek manage the noise? Especially considering that their apartment is even smaller than the Silvernale household. Rolls on the table quiet the children down handily, except for Breck who needs his roll torn up. 11's grainy bread is tough; babies don't quite have enough strength in their teeth to feed themselves.

Meyla and Marek set to creating a dinner from the groceries. Hannah is in the living room. I collapse onto the couch beside her. There was a restlessness that stirred my joints when Mason died. Hannah is gripped with paralysis, utter helplessness.

Hannah and I are close. She's five years younger than me. When I left to study in the Capitol for two years, my sister was thirteen, devastated for several weeks with the loneliness of not having her only sibling around. We wrote letters back and forth, our correspondence monitored, of course.

When I returned to District 11, Hannah was sixteen, already a young woman. She was seeing Marek Amaranth; the two of them were wild about having children. Obviously, that worried the parents who refused to allow them to marry until both turned eighteen. Meyla gave birth to Mason that year and Hannah wanted so badly to have a child that she practically became a third parent.

My sister wanted children more than she wanted to breathe, but it was eight extended years before she and Marek had Rue. Hannah and Marek were so thrilled that Meyla and I even discussed having a second child. Mason was a handful, though and his participation in the reaping was only four years away. We decided a son was enough.

Not for the Amaranths. I never knew two people could have so much love in them. Once Rue came into the world the other children followed and Hannah's life overflowed with joy. At times and even now, I wonder if she and Marek will ever stop having children or if age will bring that period of their life to a close.

Rue was very special. Eight years into their efforts, Hannah was anguished, feeling time slip through her fingers like water. When her first child was born it was truly a miracle. The girl was walking and talking before we knew it, always the little darling.

She and Mason were good friends, despite the age difference. Once, when Mason was sixteen, Rue helped him pull a prank on a field crew trying to get a girl, Sandrea, among the workers to take notice of him. It was elaborate and involved a 'borrowed' harvest truck. We parents were adamant that they tell us exactly what happened, to no avail. Mason and Rue kept their vow of silence and the Peacekeepers never came snooping around.

Rue is an amazing big sister, too. She watched her mother, mimicked Hannah's nurturing ways. When Breck was born, Rue held the little guy endlessly. Even though Rue had a lot of growing left, she was finally big enough to manage her siblings.

The grueling field work never bothered my niece. Her sweet voice was always a hit with nearby people and mockingjays. She too had the scarred hands; her soft skin torn, calloused, and tanned under searing sun, and much more harshly since it was every day for her. Rue dealt with this rough life gracefully. Due to long, tiresome days and irate Peacekeeper oversight, most field workers have to sing in order to get through each day. On the other hand, Rue sang because she loved to sing.

I recall a song she performed at Mason's funeral, at least the tune. It was a soft melody that she sang with the breeze. Her pitch was perfect even though she was crying herself. Rue willed her voice to perform with excellence and waited until she rejoined her family to mourn. She heavily mourned Mason's passing; perhaps the concept of death too freshly discovered before realized. My heart growls at me for forgetting the lyrics to Rue's song. I'm so awful at singing and I had never heard the song before, or since, actually.

"Hannah?" My sister looks vaguely at me, through me. "Do you remember that song Rue sang at Mason's…?" I trail off, abruptly feeling self-conscious.

She shakes her head. "Rue wrote that song just for him. She never sang it again." My sister lays her head against my shoulder and sighs. "She's so…"

Hannah doesn't have the will to finish. She could mean anything. Talented, adorable, funny, mature, exceptional... "Yes, she is." I pat Hannah's hand.

That's the life we're witnessing on the screen, tied down like an animal. That's the life the Capitol didn't care about and decided to throw into a dazzling firework-display of murder. Does the Capitol even realize that people in the districts draw breath too?

Meyla announces that it's time for supper and we amble into the kitchen. Marek leans against the counter beside me. There aren't enough spaces on the benches. The Amaranths are used to crowding. The kids squeeze in between the two women.

"You know, Kip. Hannah and I really appreciate all you've done for us." Marek bites into one of the tough rolls.

"It's no problem, Mark. We'll help you get through this."

He looks at me inquisitively. "Did you get through it?"

I look down at my feet and whisper, "No... There's no light at the end of this tunnel." My plate clanks as I set it down, dishing up another spoonful of sliced fruit. "I remember when my folks died, you remember that?"

Marek nods. Of course he remembers. Hannah was worse off than I was.

"Well, you know, our father died, Hannah and mine. And then Mom died a few months later because she-things weren't the same without Dad. The truth is-it doesn't feel great thinking about it, even six years later..." I take a bite of juicy orange. "Over time, you start to remember other things, besides the loss. You know, you remember things they taught you and the times you had with them."

His toe nudges the floor miserably. "What if…" Marek tilts his head looking down. "What if the time you had was just not enough?"

I spear a grape with my fork, savoring its flavor. The grave in my throat croaks an answer, "With Mason…" I could tell Marek. He would understand, given the situation. I could say that I felt robbed because Marek feels that. I feel abused, like a doormat for the Capitol's flunkies. I feel enraged and empowered to make the disregard for my son really harm the Capitol's stranglehold.

But the truth is, I love my wife and I haven't had a chance to figure out what's more important. The magic that my wife creates in me is intense, consuming and I really want to surrender myself to that bond we once shared, give my heart back to my wife so she can clean away the hate and anger I have harbored within myself.

"The pain; it hasn't improved and it probably never will, but that doesn't mean you have to hang on to it, become a... prisoner to grief. You have to move past the depression for the people you love. Hannah is going to need you and you have five other children who need their father to provide for them and love them."

Marek absorbs my words like a sponge. "How are you and Mey doing, by the way?"

That's a question I really can't answer, yet. I don't have to because Wren rescues me from it. "Uncle Kippy? Can I have more fruit?"

"How do we ask, Wren?" Marek chides her lightly.

"Pleeeasssee?"

"Well, sure you can, sweetheart." I put two big spoonfuls onto her plate and hand it back.

After dinner the entire family plays word games, although I occasionally glance in at the screen. No major change. Evening falls over District 11 so the kids will be going to bed soon. Another night of one couple per couch doesn't sound like a great idea to my spine, so when the kids go to bed, Meyla and I put out two blankets on the carpeted floor of our bedroom. We'll suffer the sturdy floor and let each of the Amaranth adults stretch out on a couch.

After the kids are put to bed, we deposit ourselves in front of the broadcast, everyone feeling queasy from the images. The arena's afternoon is on the verge of descending into evening. Katniss is already nearing third fire site. I wave the other adults in, uneasily. Hannah and Marek shouldn't have to watch their oldest daughter die. Any parent would have to see the replay, knowing it would be the most horrible thing they've ever witnessed. If someone could show me a video of Mason's murder, I'd use it as evidence and get that two-faced Covas to open the case up!

The corner-screens disappear, and the entire image is halved. On the right Katniss stalks toward the firewood pile Rue never lit. On the left, Rue continues struggling to free herself from the net, without luck. The television has been muted all day.

My thumb punches the button; Rue's voice floods the room. Not the whimpering of a trapped girl, but her singing voice, singing the four notes she relays to the other workers, letting them know that quitting time has arrived. In the arena, a few mockingjays listen and warble the tune back.

Katniss arrives at the clearing and stares at the pile of kindling, her shrewd eyes betray racing thoughts. Marvel watches her from his branch. The boy doesn't move.

Katniss resolves something in her mind and she haunts back into the woods, ever cautiously. She pokes around looking for tracks until she hears Rue's melody relayed by a mockingjay. The Girl on Fire smiles and moves toward it, cooing the notes back. Quite surprising, Katniss Everdeen has a beautifully melodic voice.

Marvel climbs down and pulls a spear off his back. As he steps into Rue's view, my niece shrieks in terror. Hannah moans, Meyla's fingers squeeze my knee. Katniss hears Rue, breaks into a dash straight toward the trap! Marvel will surely catch her mid-run with his menacing spear.

Panicked, Rue screams, "Katniss! Katniss!"

Katniss shouts back, "Rue!" Her voice strains with sudden hysteria. "Rue! I'm coming!"

She dashes into the clearing and I know it's over for both girls. My hand squeezes Meyla's. Marek wraps his arms around his wife and holds her shaking form.

Then Marvel makes a mistake that destroys our world. His thrown spear swims across the screen in slow motion, my eyes wince reflexively. But it doesn't pierce Katniss. Marvel's spear sinks into Rue's stomach with nauseating force.

Not a third of a second later, Katniss' arrow buries into Marvel's neck, bursting out the other side, almost leaving his flesh. The boy sinks to the ground, blood gushing from the wound. He was moving to retrieve the spear. Katniss was impossibly swift. Not quick enough. Katniss howls at Rue, "Are there more? Are there more?" She spins in circles drawing another arrow, nock to string.

"No! No!" Rue manages to reply each time and finally Katniss hears.

She pushes Marvel off my speared niece to examine the wound. The shaft is buried deep enough to pin Rue to the ground. My eyes blur with tears.

Katniss clasps Rue's hand in her own, kneeling down beside the poor girl. "You blew up the food?" Rue's words are weak, damp. My own face burns in a frown.

"Every last bit."

"You have to win."

"I'm going to, going to win for both of us now." Katniss looks up at the sky, her image twisted with honest anguish, not being able to help someone you care for. She only knew Rue for a day and that was enough. My niece has that effect on people.

"Don't go."

Katniss gingerly lifts Rue's head onto her lap, caressing her face. "Course not. Staying right here."

Rue's lips move but the sound is too quiet and weak.

Katniss grimaces but then she clears her throat and begins to sing Rue a lullaby:

Deep in the meadow, under the willow

A bed of grass, a soft green pillow

Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes

And when again they open, the sun will rise.

Rue's lips curl up gently in a split second. She gazes at Katniss as the Girl on Fire continues.

Here it's safe, here it's warm

Here the daisies guard you from every harm

Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true

Here is the place where I love you

Rue's eyes close and Meyla weeps into my shoulder, taking my own hand in hers. My heart stops as I watch this wonderful girl stolen away forever. Katniss sings on, with the same compassion that Rue often demonstrated.

Deep in the meadow, hidden far away

A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray

Forget your woes and let your troubles lay

And when again it's morning, they'll wash away.

Katniss breaks down as she struggles to complete the last few lines. Her voice shudders with sorrow. Her cheeks, bruised and thin, sparkle with the evening glow.

Here it's safe, here it's warm

Here the daisies guard you from every harm

Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true

Here is the place where I love you.

She finishes and looks at Rue's limp form. Mockingjays strike up the lullaby and sing in unison as the notification flashes up on screen that Rue has died. Hannah wails. Marek's lips twist into a miserable frown as quiet tears slip from his eyes.

Katniss leans over, gently kissing Rue's forehead. She lays the body down and stands up to look at the pitiful, limp form of my sister's dearest miracle. Then she collects supplies from the dead Career and picks up the backpack she gave Rue the day before. Katniss stares at my niece once more, fresh tears welling in her eyes.

I wonder what is going through her mind. What could the Girl on Fire be thinking at a time like this? The callous part of me insists that she's just one death closer to winning the games. Of course, Rue told Katniss to win the games and with Rue gone, this mockingjay-clad girl, whom Scipio states has stirred up real feelings of humanity in Panem, seems as good a choice as any to have a victory this year.

Katniss' sorrowful contemplation abruptly peaks and she hurries into the woods. Flowers are growing on a gradual incline. She picks them and lays them across Rue's body. The weeping in my living room quiets as we watch. We can't believe what we are seeing!

She lays flowers over the wound and decorates Rue's tiny body with the little blooms, they glow white, pink, and orange in the receding light. Soon, my niece has stems woven in her hair and surrounding her face. Katniss steps back and whispers, "Bye, Rue." She does that odd three finger salute from the mouth, and then leaves the clearing.

The shot holds showing Rue's now dazzling appearance, even in death looking beautiful and innocent, undeserving of what became of her. Then the Gamemakers cut back to Katniss so the aerial drones can collect the dead. My niece's eyes blaze in my mind, joined by the fresh memory of her deceased form wreathed with flowers. A commemoration by someone the Capitol forced to be her enemy.

The Hunger Games are supposed to divide the districts. Yet this girl shows... defiance, even rebellion! After volunteering for her sister, Katniss was made all the more human to the people of the Capitol when Peeta confessed love for her. It told the Capitol's Hunger Games acolytes that Katniss is human, that she can be loved and so they have come to adore her.

And now Katniss made Rue unforgettably beautiful as she covered the scars of Panem's cruelty. To change the Capitol, it isn't enough to see that we bleed and die. Scipio wants them to see that we love, that we have worth. Katniss Everdeen is doing more to showcase the humanity of the tributes than anyone ever has; almost as if District 12's tributes were trained.

No one from 12 would volunteer for the reaping, certainly not at that age with a young sister to care for. Besides, the Games are stupendously chancy anyway. There couldn't be any underground orchestration of encounters within the arena. And if Katniss isn't being orchestrated and she didn't know she was going to volunteer in the reaping, the only alternative is that someone rigged the reaping in order to produce Katniss and Peeta as tributes.

And that would be untenable! Who among the underground would be willing to sacrifice people so flagrantly? People join the underground because the Capitol throws life away carelessly, not so they can do the same. If someone was to set up District 12's reaping so that this girl would be a tribute, that person would have to overcome the greatest moral objections in their being. It would destroy them, I think.

I joined the underground hoping to find justice for my son, wondering for months when it will be served, if at all. If Scipio asked me to, I would provide it myself. But it would be against those who are guilty of grievous crimes: Jura Penrose and Volente Covas. I could never sentence to death a tribute because it might be more convenient and sway public opinion in the Capitol that one child dies as opposed to another. That's what we need to fight against!

My lip hurts until I realize I've been biting it. On the screen Katniss wanders, broken, partially stumbling. It's doubtful that she's fatigued since she spent most of the day waiting. It's grief. Or anger. Even mourning, the Girl on Fire surely knew that decorating flowers over Rue meant as much on the broadcast as it did to her sorrow.

The Gamemakers follow her for several minutes. Then a parachute floats down in front of Katniss. She looks at it numbly before removing its contents. It's one of those rye rolls, similar to the ones we had for dinner. Her face brushes with understanding as she looks up, moving to where the final rays of evening still seep through the leaves. The shot switches as though Katniss is going to make a speech. She only says one line, "My thanks to the people of District Eleven," holding up the bread.

"District Eleven?" Meyla looks at the screen. Her eyes glisten. Hannah and Marek are weeping quietly. "That came from us? From Seeder?"

"Seeder must have thought it would be a nice gesture, given how Katniss sang to Rue and... the flowers..." I drift off into a grungy grunt.

Marek is leans forward, head in his palms, elbows on his knees. His back shakes with silent seizures of heartbreak. Hannah's moans bite at me, matching my own shaking soul.

I should be grieving, except only thing that I feel is fury. Not at Marvel. It's clear that if the boy had gone after Katniss first, both girls would be dead. Marvel was doing what the people of District 1 taught him to do, sickening though it might be for my family.

The Capitol should pay for this travesty! I don't know what anyone expects by Katniss' display of affection and humanity. It would be stupid to think the people of the Capitol will be moved in any real way. They probably feel superficially awed, and the fact remains that there will be no call to end their entertainment, despite its human cost. This year's drama will likely encourage a new brand of intrigue expected from future seasons.

My head shakes, hanging. Meyla moves away from me to help my sister out of the room.

Scipio has to understand what is accomplished here. He said the Games would be different this year and they are to some degree. This won't make a difference in the grand scheme of things, not to the people who have some real power, some real ability to change the system or to abolish it.

The underground should strike and let the Capitol know that we will no longer tolerate this abusive amusement. If we stand up soon, with the spur of this outrage rallying people to reclaim their dignity, there might be a chance at success!

My feet tap on the hardwood floor, knees refuse to keep still. Anger flushes my system with adrenalin. I have to move, to take a walk.

The air is quiet outside. There are only soft songs tonight, those written to memorialize our cherished departed. Even those who never knew Rue must have been moved by what happened on the screen.

I pass two young people on the street. Both the boy and the girl wear mockingjay pins carefully crafted to mirror Katniss Everdeen's. They're better quality than the homemade tokens I've seen on a few people, even a few adults. Someone must be stamping these things out of brass, although the original appears to be real gold. I wonder if the stylist that made Katniss' costumes from the fire came up with the pendant.

A devious smirk presses across my lips as I think about people all over Panem wearing mockingjays, the symbol of the Capitol's greatest blunder during the Dark Days, the icon of the Girl on Fire who is becoming beloved, so vulnerable, yet strong., insolent, except when loving, battered, but persevering. She's Panem's citizens.

Can Scipio ignore this opportunity? If Katniss is killed, then everyone with a mockingjay is going to venerate her in their own way. The underground ought to take advantage of this circumstance. And what if she wins?

Katniss may win. Her skill with a bow is undeniable. Although Marvel was a scant few yards away, the shot was a lethal, pure, controlled reaction. The boy wasn't even on his knees before Katniss had another arrow ready for other attacking Career tributes. How many are left? Not a lot; perhaps a quarter of the original twenty-four. That sounds about right. Two Careers, massive Thresh, Peeta who seems to be fighting off death every single minute, Verona who adjusts her diet strangely, and Katniss Everdeen. Half of the field could easily dispose of Katniss. It's really just a matter of how the encounters take place.

After the display with Rue, the poetry of making her beautiful and valuable, the sweet song that told Panem how precious my niece is, the Gamemakers will surely do what they can to destroy Katniss. Hopefully, it's too late. The combat was on live broadcast during the time of day when everyone watches and the Gamemakers neglected to edit out the tenderness that reminds us that it's not just kids assaulting each other. It's someone's daughter and someone's son, thrown away for nothing more than petty pleasure and power.

Scipio was right. The time is soon to come. It has to be now!


	16. Chapter 16

16

Everyone at school marvels at how sweetly Katniss bid farewell to Rue. The way she used to sing me to sleep when Mom was out of sorts. She sings with such a majestic voice, it used to calm my jitters when there was nothing to eat and my tummy just wouldn't let alone. Katniss would make tea and sing until her voice went raw and even the warm mint wouldn't help.

Once Mom's depression improved, Katniss stopped singing altogether. It reminds her too much of Dad. It's hard to think about him since we miss him so badly. Katniss has it worse because she had to take over for him, bringing home enough food and supplies to keep us alive.

I accept everyone's kind words. It's nice to see that other people care. There's one person I don't see at school. Madge is out again. I wonder if the mayor's daughter is going to get in trouble for absences. I haven't seen her since she was over at the house a few days ago.

Katniss is tipping on the edge of a breakdown. Having the comfort of a companion must be a really big deal in the arena. With Rue gone, my sister had to command herself verbally to get up and hunt for food.

Katniss is closer now than ever to victory! Only a few tributes remain and my sister didn't hesitate one bit to kill Marvel, last night. She's capable, but maybe consoling Rue has broken whatever was left of her emotional balance. She needs a reason to try. Hopefully coming home is reason enough. In the meantime, I make up my mind to help those people who are trying to comfort Mom and me.

After school lets out, I walk straight to the mayor's house and knock on the door. Mrs. Undersee answers it, shading her eyes from the sunlight. "Hello, there, young lady. What can I do for you?"

"Hi, uhm," I stammer nervously. "I-Is Madge here?"

Mrs. Undersee cocks her head. "Aren't you a little young to be in Madge's class?"

"We're not in the same class, ma'a-Mrs. Undersee." I step into the shade, so she can see me. "I'm Primrose Everdeen. Katniss is my big sister."

"Oh, yes. I remember you. Let me check and see if Madge is feeling well enough to see you." I wait on the porch, noticing how splendid the mayor's house is, even if it could use another coat of paint. It's covered in manufactured siding instead of plain flat boards, and the windows are thick. There's even an old bench swing that trembles in the breeze. I settle onto it until the rusty chains creak. I shoot onto my feet, fearing something is damaged.

"It's okay, Prim. Sit back down." Madge comes over holding two glasses of a grayish-yellow liquid with ice. "Here. Have some lemonade."

Oh, I remember this! It's sweet and tart and I savor the taste as we both sit, chains creaking. "Are you alright, Madge? You haven't been to school in two days."

She doesn't answer, merely stares into space. The other houses in this area are owned by some of the people who run businesses in District 12. They're very nice; however none is quite as impressive as the Undersee's.

"Gale said you left early on Tuesday. That you were upset about something."

Madge nods distantly, remaining silent.

"Thank you for the lemonade." I take another sip.

At this, she smiles, her gaze suddenly gaining presence. "You're welcome." Her own glass is still full, condensation drips onto the wooden slats of the bench swing. "You seem better today, Prim."

My feet rock anxiously. My shoes are nowhere near the porch. "I just needed to know that-" It's still very hard to convince myself, "that I didn't do anything wrong."

Madge's lips tighten toward the left corner of her mouth. "You didn't. There was nothing you could have done differently." She looks away, lost once more.

I try to bring her back. "I have you to thank for that, Madge. A lot of people tried to tell me that, but you helped me see it."

She continues staring, pats my hand. Ambient noise of the afternoon takes over and we simply listen for a while. When my own glass of lemonade is empty save ice, Madge offers me hers, still untouched. I object at first. She's already handed it to me, refusing to take no for an answer.

A few minutes later, that's gone too. My belly swirls, tight and full of lemonade. I sit with Madge a while longer, just in case she needs company. Maybe she and Katniss were closer than anyone knew. Gale knows my sister about as much as I do and he didn't notice a deep friendship either. Still there was clearly some sort of bond between her and Madge, something that they shared together.

"Katniss is doing well in the Hunger Games," I say, hoping somehow to brighten Madge's damp spirits.

Madge nods faintly. "Better than I ever could have hoped."

"Well, I have to go help Mom in the apothecary. If you want to talk, you're always welcome to come over." I set down the glass on the porch railing. "Thank you for the lemonade, Madge."

"Sure thing,"

Today, the apothecary shop is busy with people buying herbs for this and that ailment. One miner comes in with a deep cut on his arm and I help Mom clean and sew it up. People also come in to tell us how sure they are that Katniss will win. I wonder about Peeta, though. Wonder, whether or not anyone is caring to tell the Mellarks how sorry they are that he's literally on his last leg.

Peeta was always very sweet to me and I still like him a lot. Maybe more even now that he may die from his efforts to protect Katniss. I don't want any of the tributes to die, although that Cato boy seems like he's too full of hate. He wouldn't be if there were no Games to hate other people in.

It's evening by the time Mom and I get home and night once the chores are done and dinner is prepared. Another mixed stew of the last food in the house. I'll have more of Lady's milk and cheese tomorrow, so there will be a little money to buy more food. Gale stops by and gives us a plump rabbit and a massive bag of greens. Some of the plants are medicines that will go to the apothecary shop. Aside from that, Gale has brought us enough food for another few days. Mom invites him in to watch the replays and have some dinner.

Katniss perches in a tree, settling in for the night under the infernal anthem which plays every night before the replays. Trumpets signal an unexpected announcement followed by the deep voice of Claudius Templesmith who makes the rare statements.

"Attention, 74th Hunger Games tributes! For this year only, there is to be a change in the rules. In the event that only two tributes remain alive and happen to be from the saaame district, they will both be declared victors of this year's Hunger Games! If both tributes from a single district survive, they will both be victors, this year! Gooood luck!"

Katniss' look of shock reflects faces all across Panem. No such change in rules has ever occurred before. Not in the middle of the Games and never to permit two victors! Katniss moans aloud, "Peeta!" Suddenly, her hands clamp over her mouth. I can hear Gale gasp lightly.

Peeta doesn't have to die! Katniss has to beat the other tributes and Peeta can come home too, if he can hang on. But Gale is not surprised at the announcement. It's Katniss' reaction. She barely knows Peeta, right? She screamed his name in the night, longingly, as if he were the only boy in the world that matters.

To accompany my sister's emotional outburst, the Capitol shows an enlarged replay of Peeta's reaction. Camouflaged, laying in a mud bank, where he's been for several days, it's impossible to see his face in the poor lighting. No matter. It's clear that he has trouble containing himself. Mud heaves where Peeta's chest hides and moans of either hope or pain escape his clenched teeth, white against the darkness.

Both tributes from District 2 are alive too, although still suffering from painfully swollen tracker jacker stings and now feeling the hollowness of starvation. Katniss and Peeta are the only other pair of tributes. "Gale, why would they wait till now to change the rules?"

Mom answers when Gale neglects to speak. "Prim, it's because the Capitol likes Katniss and Peeta."

Gale nods. "They don't want to see Peeta die alone. Not when every guy could see himself liking Katniss, especially now with her singing and everything..." He growls at the screen.

Is he really worried about how Katniss feels about Peeta? She may not even come home and he's concerned that she may fall for the half-dead boy who saved her? That's ridiculously unfair! Although, I've never been in love and don't understand its intricacies.

It makes you do crazy things, I know. It made Mom lose her senses when Dad died. Katniss and I couldn't bring her through it with our affection and Katniss stopped trying after a few months. Love made Peeta put himself between Katniss, who was indifferent toward him, and the harshest alliance of tributes in the arena.

Love is a strong motivator and a strong burden to carry at the same time. Peeta had a reason to set his life aside for Katniss, just like Katniss had a reason to volunteer for me. And now, Peeta has a reason to survive. He was prepared to sacrifice himself so that Katniss could win. Now he would be allowed to win with her!

I'm only twelve years old. I'm only just learning about what love is and how it works between people. How it can make you set yourself aside entirely and do what is best for someone else. That's all well and good and I adore Katniss for what she's done for me.

But if she could just come home!


	17. Chapter 17

17

Rue's coffin is small, almost miniature. A simple, polished wood box with carrying rails on either side. Myself, Marek, and two young boys who were friends of Rue's carry it off the train. Marek and I hold it at waist level for the two kids. No one attended on the ride from the Capitol and I suspect that Rue's body was carelessly placed in the coffin since it lists to one side. My fears are confirmed when I discover that it was sealed to prevent opening. The Gamemakers won't even give our family the dignity of saying goodbye. Her body was sent back a scant twelve hours after Rue's death.

Hannah and Meyla follow with the Amaranth children as the coffin leads a silent procession through town, heading out to a cemetery where some volunteers dug a grave. Someone even donated enough money for a headstone. I hope it's tasteful.

Hundreds of people follow solemnly behind us, more than any other tribute's funeral has attracted, in my memory. Many are here because they knew Rue or they know the family. Others are here because attendance will serve in their minds to honor this girl whom the Capitol tried to disgrace. They didn't know her, but they experience the sort of life she endured. They couldn't know that she toiled under it so gracefully, and no matter, since that's not the point. Mockingjay pins are everywhere; their symbolic reference has exploded in popularity. Even a few of the Peacekeepers who oversee the plodding procession have adorned themselves with the metal birds.

My eyes burn. I let salty tears drip down my face. Twelve years old! Not a needless death at all; a death that was sought by hateful men. Not a tragedy but a travesty. She didn't need to die! Nothing was wrong with her! Nothing in Rue threatened the Capitol, not even in some foolish, convoluted logic, foreign to good sense. Rue is dead because the Capitol is populated by animals, wild beasts that live such extravagant lives they've forgotten what it means to hurt, to experience guilt or discomfort. And sequestered from the moral obligations of human sense, they have stolen all decency from every sequestered section of the nation, taking with them our produce.

Nothing can be worse than this! What potentially chaotic insurrection could be more depraved than twenty-three children being ground against stone, for the crimson scintillation of wicked men's ghastly minds? Why must we wait any longer?

The sun beats down mercilessly upon us. Summer is running later than usual, baking the fall, even as leaves begin to change. The streets are lined with people who remove their hats as we pass, some nodding their solidarity our way. Every now and then, someone runs out and sets a flower into the growing pile on top of the coffin. The plants glow in the sunlight. Most of the tangled stalks boast dainty, yellow or white rue, the flower for which my niece was named.

Behind the family, feet tread the streets, their combined force a gentle rumble through the pavement. Breck chirps every now and then. He's too young to understand what's going on. Even these two quiet boys, who assist Marek and me, are too adolescent for this. I'm sure of it. Can they understand the outrage of Rue's death? Or the beauty that Katniss provided her at the end?

Of course they understand, Kippen. They're old enough to be in the reaping too. Old enough to see that Rue's final moments were far gentler than every other tribute's demise. What about the crippled boy killed by Thresh? What about the girls bloated into unrecognizable form by tracker jacker venom? What about those killed at the bloodbath, already forgotten?

Businesses give way to homes and the homes give way to apartment complexes just outside of Three Corners. After that, the fields stretch wide and full. Songs drift to us weakly over the sound of the breeze swishing through plant life. The district mourns today as they mourned yesterday. And we'll weep again if Thresh falls, though I don't believe anyone can easily take him down. The songs are wistful and bittersweet. It's meant to send Rue off with a pleasant tune but my ears convert every passage into a cry for mercy. For those who matter, ears too deaf to hear. For those who hear, hearers too bound to move.

I remember Mason's funeral. While attended by far fewer people, it was large enough to pay decent respect to my son. It was plagued by Volente Covas' premature decision. I never said goodbye to Mason because I just couldn't let him go without resolution. And now Rue will haunt me too. Her gazing eyes will bore through me day in and day out, begging me to be brave and stand up. So that her abusers will not remain unchallenged.

We arrive at the cemetery. I see the hole that the men dug is far too large. They were expecting a full sized casket. Not the undersized box that we bring in gingerly. As we set down Rue's coffin beside the pit, my memory jumps back to yesterday, the conversation Meyla struck up. Hannah had asked me to say the eulogy before the Amaranth family went home to grieve. Meyla asked, "What are you going to say?"

"I'm not sure." I had been sitting at the kitchen table for nearly an hour buried in thought, almost not moving. No string of praises for my little niece seemed appropriate and proper.

Meyla doesn't offer any advice, opting for a warning. "Be careful what you say, Kippen." She wraps her arms down my chest and holds me from behind, whispering into my ear. "There's still five more we have to think about." Her fingers drift up onto my neck and scratch the grain of my stubble. Meyla's cheek presses against mine. I speculate whether the sensations I felt last night are going to re-emerge. They don't though and as we breathe she can feel that I'm gone again, numbed to her in this sea of bitterness.

People gather around crowding the gradual hillside, perhaps as many as a thousand, waiting to hear me speak and I still have no idea what to tell them. 'Here lies a darling little girl who was cast into a pit of wolves for fun. Let us all remember this girl as she was to the people who placed her there, mere biological scrap. We ought to be proud that she went this way. The Treaty tells us is it the right method to keep things peaceful. Perhaps she ought to have killed herself. '

The long line stops shuffling in so I banish sarcasm from my thoughts and begin, speaking from the heart. "Rue Amaranth was my niece." Absolute silence. Even the mockingjays and the wind have settled to leave Rue a moment of tranquility. "She always made us smile. She was a fantastic joy in our lives. Many of you know how she loved to sing and... Man, how we loved to hear her sing.

"I hope we never took her for granted, because she never took anyone for granted. When Rue used to visit with her family, she would bring my wife bunches of wildflowers. Meyla, my wife, would put them in a vase and then pick the prettiest one and braid it into Rue's hair. It's those sweet little moments we are going to miss. The truth is; she was too precious to put into words and she..." My voice quivers so I pause to steady myself. Sunlight glints off the water in my eyes. "she was taken away from us too early."

A murmur of agreement slips through the crowd. Some of the Peacekeepers glance at each other. Even this is edgy territory. My chest grinds with my breaking heart and I can't stop the flood that erupts from within.

"Rue was worth so much more than what she was given. She deserved a chance at a full life, without having to go hungry so her brothers and sisters could eat. A life where she wouldn't be put into a lottery where the winners must kill or die." Way over the line now. For fear of being the one Peacekeeper who didn't report my eulogy, certainly every single enlistee present would have do so and those numbers will create a stir. So be it. Its time we began to take a stand!

"Rue was smart and gifted even more than any of us knew. She was wonderfully generous and remarkably mature. Let us remember those best things about her, those things that made her dearest. Let's remember the friendship she shared with everyone who got to know her. Let's remember her covered in flowers! Let's remember what should have been! Let's remember her here with us, even now!"

Mouths hang open in surprise. I did everything but condemn the Hunger Games outright. The Peacekeepers whisper to each other. I shrug inside myself, not caring. They can arrest me for saying what needed to be said. That's fine. Meyla and the Amaranths had nothing to do with my words. None of them could be linked with the underground through me. Whether that would stop Covas is beyond of my control. I move aside and a quartet of little girls, including Lilja, steps forward and begin to sing, the song Katniss sang to Rue as she died. Adrenalin races, heartbeat stomps at my temples.

The underground is a fading hope. If the stir caused by Katniss Everdeen, even bringing the Gamemakers to change the rules, isn't enough to get a full scale revolution under way then... then what? I can't start a rebellion by myself. The support network built up by the underground is crucial so that each district will time its effort to a coordinated plan. If only there was a clear trigger!

The girls sing every line beautifully and after they finish subdued applause drifts through the attendees. Here too, mockingjays pick up the tune, though not as forcefully as they had in the arena. As the service ends, Meyla and I mill about with the family.

Peacekeepers are meandering back toward Three Corners. I have spoken honestly in public twice now without immediate result. Maybe Scipio's agents have held back Covas for now, but retribution is sure to be screaming down the track soon. A few dozen hugs are exchanged among the attendees and the Amaranths. The necessity to work every day disperses the crowd rapidly. People can't spare too much time out of their day, under this system.

Meyla and I walk the Amaranths back to their apartment complex a few miles outside of Three Corners. We brought along enough food and money to help them get through the next few weeks, materially. My wife will be there for them although I lack confidence that I will be as physically available, much less emotionally.

My wife's eyes tell me that she knows what I have done. I am past the point of no return. Soon, action must come, either from the Peacekeepers or from the underground. I determine to make full use of my own willingness. The family doesn't understand, but Meyla doesn't object when I excuse myself from the group.

About forty minutes worth of walking north-westerly brings me to the woods with the old shack. Scipio is present with another underground member that I know, named Keva Thos. Scipio stands up, instantly animated. "What are you doing here? I told you if you get tagged you can't come here!"

"I haven't noticed anything, yet." I close the door and brush my hand off.

"Of course not! You're not going to be told you're under investigation. That would defeat the purpose, you see."

"Well, make it go away." Even as sarcasm pours from my mouth, I know it's stupid. My eulogy for Rue was as near to apparent rebellion as can be without using the actual words.

"The investigation is being organized by the Capitol, not by the local Peacekeepers. The locals are just following orders, Kippen." Scipio withdraws a stack of papers, rifles through them and hands a page to Keva.

My voice bites at the omnipresent gloom of the cabin. "What about the Capitol then? Anyone there willing to help?"

Scipio jabs a finger my way. "You cool it down, Kip. It's that temper that's got you in such hot water. You never should have said the things you did out in public!"

"You tell me what I'm supposed to tell a thousand people at a little girl's funeral then, Scipio! I've been listening to you talk for eight months now and all I've heard is terror. You're terrified of moving lest you rattle the chains the Capitol has on us!"

"Funeral? Rue's funeral?" Scipio's face morphs into horror. "Oh, what did you do now, Kippen? I was talking about that dinner you had with Covas."

I move forward toward the table. "Oh. I guess you'll hear about the eulogy soon enough." I pick up a paper from the table and glimpse at it.

"Kippen, Kippen. Why are you letting yourself be controlled?" Scipio snatches the page away. That's just as well. It's a shipping manifest from cargo trains. Anyone can get a copy of these from businessmen in Three Corners.

"I'm not. You want me to be who you want me to be and the Capitol wants me to be their dutiful servant." I glare at Scipio leaning over the table. "But I'm someone else entirely."

"I mean, why do you let yourself be controlled by your rage? Why can't you act sensibly?"

"Why can't you act?" I shout!

Keva bursts out, "How do you not get this? We're up against the Capitol, Silvernale! Precision and timing is everythi-"

"The time is now!" I yell back slamming a fist against table.

"Keva," Scipio drops a reassuring hand on the younger man's shoulder while he addresses me. "The time is soon but not quite yet."

"It's been soon for months and never quite yet." I growl slowly. My hand waves over the table, "And what is all this? Some sort of elaborate scheme for ripping off the shipments of goods? Just where does your funding come from, Scipio?"

The grizzled man stares at me, his face contorted into a frown obvious even behind that grey beard of his. "You think we're stealing food?"

I don't think that. I think Scipio is dragging his feet because he's too afraid to get a revolt moving. I think he's wasting time looking at the details of a system, rather than manipulating what he knows are its pressure points. But I'm trying to get a rise out of him, trying to get information out of him. I shrug my shoulders as if I can't think of any other reason for the manifests. Actually, theft is all I can think.

"Kip, they don't just ship business materiel on the trains. They ship munitions and armaments for the Peacekeepers." He points to the papers laid out. "It's always hidden somewhere in the manifests so the train operators can't know what they are carrying. We just have to uncover what doesn't match the orders."

"You're stealing munitions?"

"We've been stockpiling for three years now. So when the proper time comes, and believe me, Kip, it is coming, we will be prepared for it."

I pause. A single thought flares through my mind, "Do you have any explosives?"

Scipio folds his arms. "We may. What's it to you?"

I try to disarm my expression and calm my voice down. Scipio will never listen to what I have to say if it comes from my passion. He wants a cold, calculating Kippen that doesn't exist, can't exist. "With properly placed explosives, I can bring down the Main Office. Or at least part of it."

Scipio looks back down at the manifests and bills of lading. "We may take you up on that when the time comes. For now, you've got yourself on the radar screen like a bolt of lightning. You need to get yourself under control! You've gotta get a hold of this rage and manage it. Stop letting it direct you." He waves toward the door, not even looking at me. "We'll contact you if we need you. Until then, don't even try making contact with us."

"Look, tell me who you have working in the Main Office and I'll coordinate with them to smooth things out with the investigation."

"Are you kidding? Given what a loose cannon you are, the less you know, the better! Now, leave." My teeth clench together beneath my lips and I turn to open the door.

Scipio calls over my shoulder. "And Kip?" I look back straight into his controlled eyes. "If I have to, I'll sacrifice a man for the cause... If you come back here, you won't be leaving again."


	18. Chapter 18

18

All of District 12 rides on a knife's edge of excitement for the Games. Each class, some of the work time is taken up by the broadcasts. The rule change excites everyone because our little, insignificant district is receiving so much attention.

Katniss, we observed, spent the morning combing the creek for Peeta, knowing that the one thing he must have access to is water. Food is tough enough to miss, even if you're used starving. No one can go without water for a week though, especially with a sliced-open leg. Katniss couldn't know about Peeta's condition, could she?

She searches down stream and at some point she must have come across him because when the screens come on at lunch, Katniss has Peeta propped up against a big rock, has cleaned the mud off to catalogue his wounds. He's burnt and she applies the burn ointment. He's stung and she spits leaves on the stings, the way Rue taught her. He's scratched all over and bruised. Peeta's rib cage is a scrawny canvas of bright white and purple-blues.

I get my meager food tray, sure that I won't be eating. Madge isn't anywhere to be seen. Absent. I decide to sit with Alabeth and two other girls my age.

Katniss' focuses her attention on Peeta's upper body. She's afraid to look at the slashed leg which is still plastered over with mud. My sister's terrified of wounds, injuries of any sort. She can't stand to see someone's body bent in ways it shouldn't be or to see limbs that are hacked deeply. Most kids are the same way because of the Games.

In the moment it doesn't bother me very much to see people who are hurt, although I suppose that's because Mom has showed me how to help those people. So many miners need help with smashed fingers and puncture wounds. At some point your stomach just stops turning and you do what you can to help. Sometimes the images will haunt my mind later on.

Maybe Katniss and I are just opposites. I can't stand seeing animals hurt as she hunts them and she can't stand seeing people hurt as Mom and I heal them. Really what matters is the reasoning for the things we do, in the instance that we do them.

On the screen, Katniss gives Peeta some pill from a first aid kit that used to be Marvel's. Katniss tries to get Peeta to eat some meat, and he refuses. He's very sick if food isn't enticing. I doubt he's eaten for days. Katniss manages to get him crunching on a few dried chunks of apple. Then, blatantly reluctant, she starts probing at his leg.

I try to eat, myself, and fail. My stomach twists closed with worry at what Katniss will find, how she'll react, and the verdict of doom the bad cut certainly spells for Peeta. Every single moment, I have to overcome my emotional torment, or else the Hunger Games will get me outside the arena before they get Katniss within.

She peels his shoes off and the dirty socks, then tries gently to remove his pants. None of the kids in the lunchroom snicker. It may be funny to our immature minds except that Peeta looks like a weakly-speaking skeleton. The fact that he's pounding on death's door because he loves Katniss weighs heavily on all the students.

They know it anyone can be chosen for the arena. If twelve-year-old Primrose Everdeen with no tesserae can be selected as a tribute, then any of these boys and girls can wind up in Peeta's place with no one at all to help them. Glancing around, most kids still have measly servings on their trays.

Peeta's pants are off and the cameras zoom in on a gruesome shot of Peeta's leg. The muscle just below his undershorts is cleaved right in the front of his left leg, down to the bone. Mud and grime and cloth and skin and various dried body fluids shiver with each heart beat in Peeta's cagey chest. It's badly infected and swelling, needs stitching and probably serious surgery that even Mom can't do. Peeta needs a real doctor with real anesthetics and probably blood transfusions too. Definitely blood transfusions.

Kids in the lunchroom reject their meals, their appetites diminished by the savage laceration. It's not just me today. Katniss' face turns a faint green like she's about to vomit with nausea. Peeta grimaces at her, "Pretty awful, huh?"

She looks away shrugging, "So-so. You should see some of the people they bring my mother from the mines." Katniss only sees some of them, usually high-tailing away from injuries. She's doing much better with Peeta though, which is good because he's not going to survive much longer with out serious assistance. Katniss might be able to help him last a few more days at best, if she can get him to eat.

"First thing is to clean it well." Strong antiseptic must be worth a dozen fortunes, this late in the Games and it's the only thing that could give Peeta a fighting cha-

"Primrose?" A teacher behind touches my shoulder. "Honey, there are some men here who would like to interview you." Behind her, there's a man with a weird looking camera and another man holding a long black stick with microphone hanging at the end. "Can you slide out so they can talk to you about your sister?"

"But I'm watching her right now, Mrs. Hornbeck," I whine.

"It'll only take a minute, dear." She waves her hand beckoning for me to get up.

"But lunch is almost over. Can't it wait until then?" My pleading is still pitifully over the top.

The man with the stick steps forward to Mrs. Hornbeck. "It's alright. We can get some shots of her and the others watching the Games, while we wait."

"Alright, fine. Primrose? Just answer honestly and try to smile some, ok? Then get to class when they say you're finished."

"Yes, Mrs. Hornbeck." I turn back to the screen. The cameraman turn on a light that casts my shadow on the cafeteria table.

"And then you'll patch it up?" Peeta asks, on screen, his voice amplified through the cafeteria so abnormally quieted.

Katniss cleaned his leg some. It could use a lot more work. Several rags for soaking up the blood and puss, a gallon disinfectant, and a hundred stitches or so are essential. None of that is available to my sister as she struggles to keep life from slipping out of Peeta. "That's right. In the meantime, you eat these."

Peeta struggles to eat the dried pears. More supplies from Marvel. Katniss opens up the first aid kit which is woefully inadequate. Not even a tourniquet, although a tourniquet isn't going to help Peeta at this point. The blood flow to the leg is well enough clamped by infectious swelling. It's not looking good for the baker's son. At least Katniss will try to help. I wonder if it makes a difference, dying near someone you love rather than by yourself. Peeta's not done for yet, I tell myself, despite everything I can see.

Katniss speaks slowly, "We're... going to have to experiment some." She tries the leaves on the cut and soon, pus begins to pour out of the leg. More signs of infection. If I knew what was in the leaves, I'd know whether it would help, but the liquid isn't a good sign. So much pus grosses my sister out. She half wretches wiping away the secretions.

"Katniss?" Peeta gazes at Katniss, his face weak from exhaustion. "How about that kiss?"

Katniss laughs hysterically as my mouth drops open. She's so awful at treating anyone with a wound! I swear, if she ever got a broken arm in the woods, she'd run away screaming in horror and never come back! I love my sister, but she seems so wimpy around people who are hurt.

The bell rings and the kids file out, some of them stuffing the dry food they didn't eat into their packs to take home. Others try to cram down the remainder of their lunch. No one throws anything away. We don't throw food away.

I had never even heard of an expiration date until I saw the weird little numbers printed on the cardboard stands for the expensive cakes at Mr. Mellark's bakery. Such a strange idea, that food could go bad.

I know Lady's milk would sour after two days if we don't use it or sell it, except that never happens. Once, Katniss scolded me when she found a jar of milk in the back of the cupboard that I had forgotten about. That was the worst she ever lectured me.

The screen shuts off remotely and I turn around to face the two men from the Capitol. The one with the camera has spiky hair dyed blue-green at the tips. His arms are covered in shimmering, intricate tattoos and his clothes are gaudy by District 12 standards.

The guy holding the microphone-stick-thing is dressed more to fit in. Nevertheless, he couldn't possibly fit in here. He's fat! His stomach pushes out his shirt like three inches and his cheeks are puffy! I can't see any bony parts on him at all and he's wearing makeup, besides. He looks alien.

He's also wearing a pin that's another knockoff of the mockingjay pin Katniss wears in the arena. To them, it's nothing but a fashion emblem. Many people in District 12 have made rudimentary copies to wear. This one is much nicer.

"Okay, ready to get started?"

I nod and then say, "Oh, wait, let me see if my hair is ok."

"Ya look fine, kid," the fat man says as I rush over to a window anyway and fiddle with the bow in my hair. Good thing I wore my nice blouse today. I check to see if there are any food stains. None. I eat carefully.

The Capitol would probably want to dip me in makeup and dye my hair. I accept that I look good enough that Mom will like what she sees. Then I realize I'm going to be on television again.

The last time I was on the broadcast, I thrashed about screaming and having a fit, almost assaulting Gale. Suddenly nervousness sets in. When I sit back down my hands fidget with my narrow waistband until I have to fold them, trembling in my lap.

"Ok, I'm just going to ask you some questions, alright? Just look at me, pretend the camera isn't here and you'll do fine. Are you ready?"

"Yes." My voice squeaks out nervously.

"Why don't you start by telling us your name and how you're related to the tribute."

The tribute... Does he even know who the tribute I'm related to is? "My-My name is Primrose Everdeen. And Katniss is my sister. My big sister." I nod to confirm the information for myself.

"Ok, kid... Primrose, just relax. Alright? Just like you're talking to one of your little friends."

The light glares in my face and my body shivers under stage fright. I don't know what it is. It never bothers me to read in front of the class, or even do a math problem at the board. Yet, I'm terrified of the audience staring at me through the camera lens. These interviews are always recorded and edited, not live like the ones with Caesar in his lighted suit. I'll probably be so awful they won't use any of it in the replays.

"Relaaax, Primrose, breaaathe." The fat man speaks gently and the trembling declines. He must have a lot of experience with these interviews, calming kids with that soothing tone. "Ok, Katniss volunteered for you, can you tell us how you felt about that?"

"Awful." My voice is still shaky, even if improved.

"You felt what about what?"

"I felt... just awful when Katniss volunteered for me. I didn't want her to go."

"I remember you were quite distraught," he quips. I can't see if he's looking at me because the light from the camera is too bright. The spiky-haired man slowly shifts around to get different angles of me answering. "Can you tell me how you felt when you saw her enter the Capitol?"

"I was amazed. The fire on her costume made her so beautiful! I was really proud of her that day, but it really hurt because I was selected and she wouldn't have had to go if it weren't for me." It still hurts.

"Fine, fine. You're doing good. What about when she mentioned you in the interview?"

"Same thing, proud and sorry at the same time."

"Can you tell us in your own words?"

"Didn't I use my own words?" I blurt out and my face flushes with embarrassment. Now, I remember how these interviews go. The clips are just the friends and relatives of the tributes saying everything. You never hear the person asking the question.

"Can you try again, Primrose?"

"Yes." I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. "When I saw Katniss at the interview, I was really, really happy that she looked so beautiful and that she said she was going to win for me." I dare a smile, hoping I don't look foolish or crazy. I leave out the part about feeling at fault. I try not to think that anymore.

"Wonderful. You're doing great, kid." I can see the fat guy, smiling fatly. It's dim wherever the camera light has left spots in my eyes. "How about that score she got? Were you surprised by that?"

I almost blurt out that Katniss hunts so I knew she would get a decent score. Now, that would be foolish. "Kat-..." I take a moment to construct my response. Gale still hunts. The Capitol can't find out about it, especially since the local Peacekeepers let it slide. Wouldn't want lenient Peacekeepers replaced with a strict alternative.

"It was really surprising to see my sister get an eleven in the scoring. I know she can be strong when she needs to, but that's such a high score..." My hands wave in front of my face incredulously. "I just can't imagine how she got it!"

My interviewer chuckles, "I've wondered that, too." Good. He's laughing, that's a positive sign. "Alright, now, you've seen her do a lot in the arena. Are you surprised at anything she's done?"

"Well, I've mostly been stressed so it kinda all blurs together, mostly. Oh, except, today she's been treating Peeta and I know she's not very comfortable with injuries so she must really want him to live. And I do too. Peeta's a good boy."

"Why do you say that?"

"That Peeta's a good boy?" The interviewer beckons for more articulation. "Oh, sorry. I actually know Peeta Mellark some. I have a goat and I sell Lady's milk, er goat's milk to Mr. Mellark who is a baker. Peeta's very nice and I hope Katniss can make him better."

"Marvelous! What a small world this is, huh?" The fat man asks the cameraman who only grunts in reply. "Now, Primrose. There are a lot of people in the Capitol and even in the other districts who are rooting for Katniss to win. Is there anything they should know about her that they should sponsor her for more gifts?"

"Well, she could probably use more food and medicine for Peeta." The interviewer motions again. "Uhm, Katniss is so wonderful. People should just know how sweet she is, even though-"

I start over again with a deep breath. "Katniss can use that bow really well. It's like she's a natural, even though she's never shot a bow and arrow before! And she'd do anything for me and she's going to win the Games this year."

I feel good finishing that statement. It's a nice measure between confident and hopeful. People don't like arrogance, at least not in District 12. Maybe they do in the Capitol. I don't know.

"Splendid! You did great, kid. Make sure to watch the replays tonight, okay? There will be special segments for the interviews over the next few days and nights so keep watching."

The two men shuffle away to a pair of double doors. The cameraman switches off the light. I turn to gather my bag and tray when the fat man calls for me. "And Primrose?" He's out the door and hanging his chubby face back in, a genuine smile plastered across his skin. "Good luck to your sister." And then he leaves.

That wasn't so bad, I think. Maybe they'll even use some of it. I think of all the times I didn't respond in proper format. They'll have to cut the video up a lot. Some of it might make it into the broadcast. If I can get Katniss just one more gift, it was worth it.

I hurry to class and my wish is granted with the television turned on. At least the Games are so riveting we don't have to listen to the same old lectures. All the not-knowing was rotting at my conscious mind.

Katniss is helping Peeta crawl into a narrow space underneath rocky crags by the creek. It's almost a cave, as though water pulled the dirt out from underneath a huge stone face or eroded its base over time. It's deep. So deep, Katniss can crawl into the space with Peeta, and sit up as she layers pine needles onto the dirt.

She works Peeta, delirious from the pain of moving, into the sleeping bag. I don't know how far the cave is from Peeta's creek-bed. It couldn't have been all that distant. Moving him is very risky. Everything is risky at his stage.

My hopes for Peeta's survival are rapidly diminishing. He's just… too weak. I've never seen someone that far gone come back and Katniss doesn't have expertise or even passable remedies. She used to gather medicines for Mom and me. Actually, she may not know very well what leaf or stalk or juice or root is good for what ailment.

Peeta stares intensely at Katniss, every bit of his energy studying her as she attempts to camouflage the cave entrance with windy vines. It begins to look halfway decent before she rips down the weave in disgust. Peeta's condition, as well as her own hunger, pain, and emotional trauma are taking a toll on my sister.

The injured boy calls out Katniss' name. She kneels down beside him, the shot jumps to a different angle capturing both their faces. She brushes her hand over his forehead as he whispers, almost inaudibly, "Thanks for finding me."

Katniss' hand lingers on his forehead. His fever must be brutal. "You would have found me if you could." Katniss' expression begins to deteriorate.

Then Peeta says, "Yes... Look, if I don't make it back-"

"Don't talk like that. I didn't drain all that pus for nothing." Someone in the classroom gags.

"I know. But just in case I don't-" He's so weak. She has to know it won't be long now.

"No, Peeta," Her voice soothes with a gentleness she had always reserved for my own distress. "I don't even want to discuss it."

Peeta tries to talk again but Katniss kisses him, stunning everyone in the classroom. Gasps rise up from twelve-and-thirteen-year-olds. It's not the way Mom and Dad used to kiss. Maybe it's just that Peeta is too weak and feverish, or more likely, neither of them have kissed anyone before. I'm surprised too at my sister's sudden gesture of affection and then it's over.

Katniss looks away from him speaking forcefully. "You're not going to die. I forbid it. Alright?"

Peeta's reply is barely discernable from the gentle rustle of leaves. "Alright."

The screen shuts off and the teacher begins the class.

At the end of the school day, an announcement is made that school has been canceled tomorrow so that the kids could stay home and watch the Hunger Games. That doesn't happen either, so this seems to be a year of firsts. The first tribute from District 12 to score over a nine, the first love interest within the arena that pre-existed the arena, and for the first time a chance for two victors to emerge.

Before long, Lady is milked and I head right back out of the Seam. I've neglected to make cheese for the past few days so I left some extra milk at the house for that. Gale, also in the business district, waves to get my attention, "Hey, Prim!"

He towers over me, when I draw near. "You want to help me gather a little in the woods tomorrow? I know Katniss probably wouldn't want me to take you out there. There's just so much to bring back, I could really use an extra pair of hands to carry a few more bags."

My eyebrows rise without a word, and Gale insists, "I'll be there the whole time, Primrose. You'll be fine." Still I hesitate, from my mounting fear of the woods and all the roaming beasts that lurk beyond the fence. "We won't even hunt. Just gather. What do you say?"

My shrug is forced, "Why not? As long as we don't have to kill any animals."

"No hunting, I promise. See you tomorrow morning?"

"Alright, see you then."

He calls back after me, "Oh, and gather up Katniss' bags, ok?"

I put away my anxiety and rush off to make trades, then linger at the Mellark bakery. The boys are pleasant enough to talk to. Mr. Mellark even gives me a sugar cookie!

Though we don't talk much, he's always had a special connection with me. Sometimes I think he wanted a little girl too, having only three sons. I blame his wife, the mean, old hag. She's mean to everyone, particularly Mr. Mellark.

Allen asks what I think of Peeta's condition, given my experience in the apothecary shop. Even though I don't want to answer truthfully, I really don't want to lie and tell him that it looks good. "Well, the broadcast didn't show much, enough. I couldn't see how bad off he really is." They know it's a bluff. Everyone leaves the subject alone.

I head off to one of the restaurants in the square, a place that always pays very well for goat's milk. On one of the screens I can see that Peeta is awake and Katniss is helping him empty a pot full soup. Hot soup can work wonders on a hungry body and it does stay down very well, usually.

Consciously, I decide to believe that things are looking up, even if the odds are still against Katniss. They're no longer astronomical and she may even be able to bring Peeta back, if he can just hold on while she takes care of the other tributes.

Somehow that thought doesn't seem right. Despite my sister's scowl, I can't picture her actually hunting the other four tributes down and shooting them with the bow. But then, it horrified me when she stalked and shot that rabbit. There are things in her I don't comprehend. I have no idea how the next few days will turn out. I just dare to hope and hope feels good, risky as it may be.


	19. Chapter 19

**PART III**

"THE RECKONING"

19

Friday is consumed by my concentration on the now fully compiled data gathered in scans of the massive columns, the core supports for the Main Office's expansive structure. It was an ungainly design for the sake of style, requiring enormous lattices of trusses with hidden steel supports to strengthen the locations where girders and I-beams come together.

If it weren't for fashion, the Capitol could rebuild the whole Main Office at a pittance of a price. That fad of imposing architecture had made monstrosities of these buildings. Thus, the Main Office was a confounding nightmare of skeletal complexity. For this very reason, it could be much easier to bring down, if hidden design flaws can be found.

The compiled data renders on the screen as I adjust values, testing the supports. During the winter, snow builds up on the roof. It melts, refreezes and then is snowed over again. Based on weather history in District 11, I can estimate how much weight will be added during the winter, per square foot of roof space. Several tons overall, distributed evenly over the roof. Pressure increases on the pillars go into the simulation and the supports hold. No surprise. If they buckled in the simulation, it would beg the question as to why the building remains standing at all. The cracks don't even expand.

By fiddling with unrealistic values, I can find out the stress limits. If the weight was approximately ten times greater than normal, the cracks would expand rapidly and the pillars would fail, collapsing the entire Main Office, all starting from two pillars on the northwest side of the atrium. That would require repeated cycles of blizzards at night and sunny, warmish days throughout of winter.

The two pillars on the northwest are worse than the raw indications suggested, and still nothing can further compromise them. The illogical design encouraged robust building, both the benefit of the building and the bane of my dark plot.

After working for seven hours straight, I decide to take a break for dinner. Meyla went back over to the Amaranth's. She won't return until later on tonight. There are a handful of leftover rolls, wrapped up in the cupboard. I take two out and look for butter. None in the house. What about jam? Gone as of a few days ago.

Was that just a few days ago? It seems like another lifetime. Like another me knifing the apricot spread onto bread slices for the children. I wonder how they are doing. The older two may understand that Rue is gone, a victim of this madness. The others won't realize it quite yet. Breck may never remember his oldest sister. If he remembers anything though, it ought to be her gentle voice.

I give up and resort to chewing the roll plain. Not exactly enticing, since they're a few days old and tough when fresh. I choke down a few bites before I realize that I'm not really hungry. I'm not very anything except aggravated. I drop the roll, sighing.

Scipio has always insisted that the time for rebellion is coming. It's like a mirage that fades as you draw near. You think you see water on the roadway. However, the closer you draw, the more it shimmers away. Like the mountains to the east. You can walk from one side of District 11 to the other, a span nearing thirty miles or so, and still those mountains appear the same distance off, never any closer.

"Why can't you trust him?" I ask myself out loud. "Just wait until he tells you it's time. He's no fool." I haven't even formed the final word with my lips before my thoughts reply. He's never once shown that he can act. Always the planner, always the watcher, always the thinker. Never yet a man of action.

When I work on a building, it can take years to fully asses every bit of the structure and sometimes I make small repairs during. Eventually, everything is taken care of over the course of a several years. There's no method to engineering which doesn't require the real world. At some point, real stuff has to matter or else all your concepts are only worth the flitting moments you spend thinking about them.

At some point, the Peacekeepers must be defeated in District 11 and when the other districts follow suit, they must unite and battle against the Capitol's heinous response. The Dark Days ended when District 13 was wiped off the map for the rebellion it encouraged. Whatever good they provided to the Capitol was expendable. Between 10 and 11, we are the source of food for all of Panem. They'd have to be more careful with us. And there can be no co-existence with the depraved people of the Capitol. Our Submission and their overthrow are the only options available.

That's just a concept though. It bears no weight in reality or even a hint of a resemblance to it. We are captives who cannot eat the food we produce! We are paid for our efforts and then resold food in such small quantities that it hardly seems sensible for us to produce much.

Everything about Panem makes me ill, most of all Jura Penrose and Volente Covas. Much as I dislike admitting it to myself, even Scipio's working his was onto my list of people who are part of the problem. He's supposed to be leading the underground, striking up an army against the government!

The Gamemakers have changed the rules permitting two tributes to win. People all over Panem are wearing the mockingjay pins to honor Katniss Everdeen. At a time rare as this, either Scipio is woefully ill-suited to the job of organizing a rebellion or he has the worst sense in timing.

He's a smart man, very smart. If he can be faulted, it's not in his comprehension or intelligence. He just needs the timing kicked off for him and I have little choice but to act soon, if I am to accomplish anything at all. Maybe if I just generate a plan, something elaborate, involving more than just the Main Office.

Wheels turn in my head. Subconsciously, my finger taps against my upper lip. That probably wouldn't work. Scipio is bound to have a plan for the uprising. Perhaps then, I ought to work up a report on the potential insurrection that could arise with the Main Office's destruction. The sight of the Main Office a crumbled mass of steel, stone, and men would spur other residents to join the fight.

I paw at the bread and take another bite, knowing all too well that my stomach is hungry. The stomach merely has a hard time getting messages past my bitter, broken heart. Grabbing paper and a mechanical pencil, I scribble down a few notes about the calculations my computer displays. How much directed explosive would it take to punch through the damaged columns? My short experience with explosives was purely academic; part of a thermodynamics class, twenty years ago, and most of what I learned is fuzzy. I flip through a few reference books.

The stone pillars are under stress already from the steel they suspend in the air. They're designed to withstand vertical pressure with amazing resilience. Lateral force, though, is another matter altogether. Actually, it would take a great deal of pressure to sufficiently encourage the fractures. To guarantee failure of a single column would require a surprisingly moderate detonation. But there are twelve pillars and the necessary quantity adds up quickly.

I scribble a few sketched ideas and simulate the concepts in my computer. Hypothetically, the pressures involved could be generated with carefully drilled holes and some well-placed shaped charges. I'm not demolitions expert, but structural stress I know backward and forward. A grimace creases my face. The requisite energy would require far too many explosives in too many holes. There's no way to set it up without being noticed. And to attempt a demolition without enough power, I may as well be using cut cord, rather than weapons grade charges.

My eyes flash open with the wry realization. I yank out a dusty, old book that contains specifications and proper handling/usage instructions for some of the more dangerous tools at my disposal. According to the statistics, yes, it could work, just maybe. Cut cord is a flexible tube with a small amount of plastic explosive filling the center. It's used to break down scrap steel into manageable pieces for shipping to District 2 where steel is milled, cast, and forged. Ordering cut cord takes a special requisition form from the Capitol and they only let me have it in very small quantities, too small for this purpose.

I think back to when Mason and I last used it. Mason was around then, so it was probably over a year ago. We had wrapped a few coils of the yellow plastic around a steel girder in the Justice Building and then covered the coils in a special foam wrap that absorbs and compresses the detonation. It split the metal right in two and we replaced the girder with some hired help and special equipment from the Capitol. That must have been... almost two years ago.

"Wait a minute," I muse. I've been focusing on the pillars for so long I neglected to consider the way the superstructure is fastened to the hub. Girders and beams extend off in every direction from the core. Cut cord is designed to rip through that industrial strength metal. It's so much easier than I thought!

According to the book "Class 2 cut cord should be considered unreliable after six months and unsafe in storage. Be sure to dispose of it properly. See page 212 for directions on disposal." That means the cord I have in my storage compartment at the train yard is probably useless, maybe extremely hazardous to handle.

Unreliable or not, the leftover cord will have to do. I can't requisition new cut cord. There's enough heat on me that the request would be denied. Frankly, thinking about what I said at Rue's funeral, I'm actually a little impressed that Scipio's agents in the Peacekeepers have managed to hold Captain Covas off so far. With years to run a slow incursion, the underground is amazingly effective, more evidence that the time has come.

Furious scribblings pour from my fingers; line after line, postulating locations, revising. At intervals, the pencil lead breaks and I have to click more out. A plan begins to formulate, almost by itself. Not a plan for Scipio. He'll get the idea when the time comes. Scipio's patient. He can wait until then.

My mind is exhausted by the time Meyla returns home. I greet her and ask how the family is taking the loss.

"Not well. Where have you been all day?"

"Hon, with all the reasons I've given the Peacekeepers to come after me, I figured I better keep a lower profile." I stack the papers and close down the computer.

She nods. "Well, your sister could really use you right now... She needs to know that life can go on."

I stack the papers and books together in a pile and push the bench back. I mutter, "Can it?"

"Kippen," Meyla starts. "It won't bring Mason back."

I pick up the stack and carry it into the living room to shelve. "Mey, I'm really trying to move on. I am."

"No, you tried to forget for a few hours, not move on." My hand stays on the books. I stare into space. Meyla walks up behind me and hugs me from behind. "All we can do is remember him. There's nothing else. He's gone."

The scent of my wife's hair drifts to me once more, enticing me to submit to the miserable life of a now childless parent. These bridges are burned now, aren't they? I can't go to the underground, and the Peacekeepers are taking aim at me. Change is already set in motion. It's only a matter of time, place, and method. Scipio's wise words drift through my mind. "There's more going on than the tragedy of our own lives. It's bigger than that." That's why he'd throw me to the wind. There are so many other people in District 11 that will suffer if nothing is done. Who are suffering because for too long, nothing has been done!

I twist out of her embrace and step aside. "What of the others? What about Rue? Meyla, I've been so... angry for so long and I thought it was just because of the cover-up." My voice is so calm and controlled, it surprises us both. "Do you remember Mason's hands?"

She nods. His scars tore her up too. You could see it in her face, now and then.

"What about all the people who spend their entire lives in the fields and then starve to death because they're too old and feeble to work anymore?"

She steps toward me again, I move away. "Kip, that's not your fault."

"It's my fault, Meyla! It's my fault if I have a chance to do something about it and do nothing."

"What can we do? We can't change the system! You're angry because we can't."

"No... We can't, but I can give others the chance to grasp for a different life and you _know_ that has to be worth trying." I stare at my wife, resolute.

Meyla's eyes widen with horror. "What are they having you do, Kippen?"

"Not them, just me... I may be able to start the end of this horror. Not for Mason or Rue. But it will protect so many others! And because it's the right thing to do."

My wife visibly melts with sorrow. As her eyes well up, it takes everything in me to stand firm. She lets her voice tremble. "You're insane, Kippen! Would you listen to yourself?"

No, I'm not, my mind insists in response. Every fragment of my reason is sound, even if driven by an emotional afterburner. The future is uncertain. But uncertain opportunity is better than certain imprisonment. I won't be free much longer, no matter what I do. I have already crossed that point. May as well strike as hard as I can in the meantime.

Is there anything I can say to my wife to make her understand? I remain silent, as calm as possible; my control thins with her anguish. She's the only one who could weaken my resolve. She's also someone who ought to understand the hopelessness of trying to raise a family in this society.

No. It's time the Capitol face a real rebellion and _I_ will bring the blade to their neck.


	20. Chapter 20

20

Normally, Gale and Katniss meet somewhere in the woods. The Hawthorne household is not very close to our own at the edge of the Seam. However, I don't know where to get under the fence or even how to be sure the electricity isn't surging through the links. That would be an awful way to go, heart blasted by a million volts that could have provided light for years, except that someone decided it would serve better to make our cage more secure. The fence would work as well uncharged as charged.

Gale knocks on the door before dawn. Mom hears it before I do, even though he meant to let her sleep. She isn't thrilled with the idea of my going beyond the fence. Frankly, I'm not terribly excited about it either. I would really prefer to stay home, watch the broadcasts than risk leaving District 12. More food tends to win arguments in the Seam, though.

Quickly dressed in rugged clothes, I step out of the tiny bedroom. Mom and Gale have turned the television on to see if anything has happened overnight. Katniss is curled up in the sleeping bag with Peeta. It must be cold again. She may be sleeping or not. It's hard to tell with a pair of funny looking sun glasses that she has been wearing at night.

At his side, Gale's hands squeeze into fists. Is he jealous of Peeta? How could he be jealous of the boy who saved Katniss' life nearly expending his own?

Gale notices me, "Morning, Prim. You got Katniss' bags?"

I nod, throwing the burlap sacks over my shoulder. My throat is tight, swallowing difficult. "I… I guess I'm ready to go."

"Just a minute, dear. Let me put your hair up for you." Mom rapidly ties my hair into a bun and drops one of Katniss' caps on my head. It fits me better than her other clothes. Hand-me-downs never seem to fit just right. Almost everyone wears pre-worn clothes. Patches are in style in the Seam, of necessity.

Gale and I bid mom farewell for the day. By the time we cross the meadow to one of Katniss' regular crawl-paths under the fence, the first rays of the sunrise stream over the horizon.

Now I remember why electrifying the fence is a good idea. A bobcat could easily sneak underneath it. Are those dangerous? Bobcats could probably kill Lady or Buttercup. Katniss said that they'll go after any little animal, the mangy lynxes. It strikes me as repulsive that a lynx would eat a stray cat. And we're going out into their territory?

Apprehension seizes my attention; I want to turn back. My skeleton rattles with fright. Gale leads the way, crawling and dragging his lanky frame easily under the fence. He's done this a million times. I hesitate to follow. "Where's your bow, Gale?"

He tilts an eyebrow. "We keep 'em hidden in the forest, remember? No, weapons allowed?" Gale sighs through a smile. "Prim, it's okay. Alright? I'll be right with you the whole time."

"You promise?"

He laughs, "If you promise not to tell Katniss that I brought you out here." His eyes wince as he speaks. Because that depends on Katniss coming home from the Games. It must be eating him alive, seeing her going through this ordeal and not being able to do anything. Gale and I are much closer to her than anyone.

I relent and crawl under the fence. Gale has spent so much extra time hunting and gathering for us... It's the only thing he can do for Katniss, now. His job is to make sure she doesn't have to worry about me and Mom.

Gale helps me up and we start into the woods. We circle around the fence, staying a few hundred yards away from it. Gale grabs a leather hide from a nook between two boulder outcroppings. He unwraps his bow and arrows. They're all constructed from field materials; even so they look to be very decent quality considering molded synthetic parts aren't available. Unlike the bow Katniss has in the arena.

"Did you make that?"

"No, actually," he strings it and plucks a note on the string. "Your father made it. Katniss traded me for it."

"Oh."

"It's just in case, for protection. No hunting today, like I promised. C'mon." Following after him, my knees still shake disquieted by the tall trees that tower over us, imposing. "Wait a sec. We do need to check the snares, okay?"

That makes sense. Leaving an animal that has been killed by a trap just lets other animals feed on it. Plus Gale's traps kill the animal instantly, he insists. We follow a trail with a few snares every few hundred feet.

Two have rabbits that dangle in the air, like they've been hanged. I look at the fuzzy little animals hanging from Gale's belt, tiny front paws sticking out rigidly from their chests. He tells me their necks are broken when the trap goes off, that they never feel a thing. I eat meat. It's just hard to see these cute, little animals as food.

Gale's last trap has a squirrel and he cleans the game as I look away, trying to become used to these wild surroundings. My anxious shivers have only partially subsided. Wanting to hear his confident voice, I call over my shoulder, "Hey, Gale? How often do we eat squirrel?"

"Actually, very seldom. The meat isn't bad... They're usually better to sell."

"Really? Why?"

"It's all about the buyer. The baker likes them a lot. As long as the witch isn't around. His wife, I mean. Katniss and I call her the witch. He'll buy every squirrel. Trading is all about finding the right buyer."

"Mr. Mellark likes squirrel meat?" I'd never seen him eat anything like that. What meat he eats is usually on a sandwich. Can you make squirrel sandwich?

"He must. He buys every squirrel we offer to him. Maybe he uses them as filler in the pot pies. Who knows? Alright, that should do." I turn back around. Gale has the animals wrapped in a leather pouch he stuffs in one of his bags. "Let's get to gathering."

"Does Mrs. Mellark not like squirrels?" I follow Gale deeper into the woods.

"I think she doesn't like Mr. Mellark. Or anybody else for that matter. If he's not eating squirrel, it'll be something else, I figure. So, why should she care if he eats what he likes?"

"She's insufferable, that's for sure." My knees aren't shaking anymore. I don't think I've ever heard Gale talk this much. It's like the woods are a place of comfort, where he can open up and say whatever he wants. Perhaps my sister feels that way about the wild. Even though I'm getting used to the idea of being out here, I refuse to let Gale's pace put any distance between us. "How do you think he ended up with her?"

"Hmm, I don't know. He's a decent man, I guess. She's just hideous. I thought maybe you'd know since he likes you so much."

"No, he doesn't talk much, even with me. Maybe Allen knows."

Gale shakes his head. "Nah, I wouldn't tell my son what is wrong with his mother, even if she is a horrible person."

We walk in silence, listening to the forest. It's quiet and the air is sharply fresh, unblemished by the coal dust pervasive in District 12. "You're a really nice man too, Gale."

He laughs. "Thanks, Prim. I just hope- wait, scratch that thought."

"What?" I gasp, starting to breathe heavy. I'm not used to uneven ground. Gale slows down. He's accustomed to hiking and his legs are so much longer. "What is it?"

"I just hope that Katniss thinks so too."

"What? You know her better than anyone else. Everyone knows Katniss likes you!"

"I really like her too." He looks off at the sun peeking through distant trees as we cross a clearing. Wildflowers dot the landscape.

"And you told Katniss you loved her."

His reply is slow in coming. "That would have been the first time I told her, Prim. I guess she still hasn't heard it, though."

"She knows you love her. She must!" I follow Gale down a path that twists and winds through thorny bushes.

"Your sister really… really doesn't want to be in love. Ugh, we shouldn't even be talking about this, Primrose." He pulls the bags off his back, "Here we go." Gale waves at some other bushes and points out the berries.

We gather as much as we can from the first hedge and move on to the next. There are so many! I never knew how much food there is out here, if you just venture out and look for it. Within half an hour, we have several pounds of berries from two dozen bushes.

Gale starts to break the stillness "I'd really like-" He cuts himself off and shakes his head.

"If you need to get some stuff off your mind, that's okay. It won't bother me."

He nods, picking more berries in silence. A few minutes later he finally opens up. "Katniss doesn't ever want to have a family or even a boyfriend."

"I know."

He whispers, "She's all I want." Almost too quiet to hear. "More than anything I've ever felt before, I want to be in love with Katniss." His hands swipe at the braches, ripping off twigs and leaves with the berries.

His voice lashes with sudden ferocity, "And now, it doesn't even matter whether I could ever convince her to marry me, because she's stuck in the Hunger Games! With one tribute who loves her like crazy and four others that want her dead!"

What? How can he be that selfish? "It really bothers you that Peeta loves her?"

He stops picking to look at me. "I know it shouldn't. I know. He almost died trying to save Katniss and he is a good person but..." He picks more berries, calming down. "You might understand when you're older, Prim. It just hurts to see Katniss with someone else."

I taste one of the berries. It's sweet and juicy, with a slight sour flavor. "She never even kissed you?"

"I almost kissed her once. That was as close as we got. She and I are very comfortable together. We just... fit together."

These bushes are picked clean of fruit. Gale says there are other things we need to gather. During our walk, he changes subjects to the Capitol. He blames them like I do for the Hunger Games and even more. Most of the stuff he describes I haven't thought about before.

I understand the way the Capitol controls the districts' food because we all experience that. He talks about tesserae and about all the rules the Peacekeepers are supposed to enforce. Apparently, people aren't supposed to be outside of their homes past a curfew time, except in District 12, the Peacekeepers refrain from imposing that law.

And he talks about how the schools are designed to make kids afraid of the government. The Hunger Games do that well enough. The lectures in school just bore me because they're never anything new.

Further on, there's a bunch of little plants and Gale kneels to show me. They're carrots. Well, the root is a carrot anyway. We pick the whole plant and keep even the leaves for Lady. They're dark coming out of the ground, a brownish-red, a few are even have a purple hue to them. Gale says even purple carrots cook just fine.

He seems to have gotten his frustrations out because he starts to grin when he changes the subject, "I saw you in the interviews last night, by the way."

My face blushes uncontrollably. Apparently the editors thought I was endearing and ran several clips of me, including my outburst about using my own words. It was a tad different from the normal interviews. Mom laughed when she saw it and then hugged me. "Oh, Primrose. You're so adorable!"

I'm so glad that school was canceled! A second day off is great. Really though, I would have been too embarrassed to face the other kids with the exhibit on television. Maybe they wouldn't tease me with Katniss still in the arena. I'll never know and I'm happy not knowing.

"It was..." I scavenge for the word that best conveys my feelings. "I was mortified!"

"Mortified?" Gale laughs, falling on the ground, tugging up a carrot with his weight.

"Don't laugh!" I wail. "Gale, quit it!"

"I'm sorry, Prim." He pants. "It was awfully cute though."

"Fine. You can say it was cute. Don't you dare say another word, though!" I wave a muddy bunch of carrots at him.

He pulls up another plant, smirking. "What if I use your words?"

"Gaaaale!" I whine, trying to suppress my childish pout.

"Okay! Okay!" He chuckles again. "Look, for what it's worth, I thought you came across perfectly."

"Like someone who loves Katniss?"

"She's your sister. That was going to show, no matter what. You showed Panem a very human side of the Games... I doubt they'll use anything from my interview."

"They interviewed you?" The dirt under my fingernails feels weird, thick.

"Yeah, for almost half an hour." He cocks his head, tossing a carrot into the bag. "I didn't have a single answer that wasn't loaded in some way. I was careful. Took my time answering. They won't use any of it, if they're smart."

I tug on a root that's stuck fast. Gale will have to get that one. "I just wish Katniss could win and come home. I hate that she had to go."

"Don't blame yourself, Prim."

I nod. Knowing that is easy. If knowing was all it took to make myself feel better, life would be easy. Easier. Of course, no matter what I know and what I feel, Katniss is still gone. Four tributes to go and one extra she needs to care for.

We only have one of six burlap bags full. This is a lot of food. "Gale, how come you don't bring back this much everyday?"

"I do. I always come home with four bags as full as I can get them. You have to remember, Prim, Katniss and I always trade what we can to get other things. Candles, coal, clothes, salt, grain. We can't just eat all this."

"This is going to be a long day, huh?"

"It's going faster than normal. We'll head back before it gets dark, I promise." He picks a carrot with each hand, including the big one I couldn't budge. "Look, I know you've had a rough time these past few weeks and one of the reason's I asked you to come out here is so you can say anything you like without worrying."

I think about that for a while. "Thanks."

"Anything you want to talk about."

"Nope. It's actually nicer being outside of the fence than I remember." Katniss wasn't even fifteen when she took me hunting and we were going for animals. This is much more serene. "It's been hard, yeah. I think I'm getting through it though. Mom's helping me and I've talked to Madge a few times."

"Feel free to bring anything up you want to talk about."

"What if I want to talk about the boys I like?"

"Aren't you a little young to start liking boys?"

I grin sheepishly. "Sort of. Some of the girls in my class are talking about boys, now though."

Gale groans, "Ugh. Okay, what boy do you like?"

Now it's my turn to laugh. "I'm kidding!" The last time I felt this normal was ages ago. It might be just a month ago. But I feel better and I tell Gale so.

"They can't own us here."

Because of the constant work, the day goes more quickly than I expected. Gale was right. There was so much to gather and he insisted that there is more in other areas for the following days. Food isn't quite as scarce out here nearly as I thought.

Since Katniss honed her wilderness skills, we had been doing better than most in the Seam. Even so we are always only a few bites ahead of the game. It's hard to appreciate how other families survive. Mine work pays a little more than the apothecary shop brings in. Honestly, if it weren't for the herbs Katniss and Gale always bring back, Mom and I wouldn't really make much money at all. Gale has to hold the fence while I drag each bag into the district.

He won't let me go to the Hob to trade most of the bounty. We separate out some of the vegetables and he leaves a rabbit, too. Tomorrow he'll bring by some money and provisions from the trades.

I turn on the television to see all the focus remains on District 12's tributes. The corner-screens show the pair of Careers stalking through the woods, no where close to the cave where Katniss attempts to rejuvenate Peeta.

Or not. Peeta lies still, out cold. Maybe he's died, I think, until I remember that the Gamemakers collect each body within minutes of the death, excepting the bloodbath where the fights at the outset can last for extended periods of time. The shot focuses on Katniss who is building elaborate camouflage for the cave. The hide is more effective this time.

After the task is complete, Katniss eats a few raw fish. She's preparing for something, cleaning her weapons, and filling every possible container with water, sorting her supplies. She never leaves, though.

Although Katniss is well rested, these trials are taking a real toll on her body. All over her hands and face, scabs from various cuts take their grueling time to heal, standing out on her pale skin, along with a spattering of inky bruises. She's too malnourished for her immune system to efficiently repair the damage. She needs medicine, herself, albeit not nearly so desperately as Peeta.

When evening begins to descend, the replays fill in the events of the day, entirely leaving out the other tributes. That's very odd. Only Katniss and Peeta receiving attention? The Gamemakers usually at least show where the other tributes are, to assure viewers that they are still around. Life in the Capitol must be thoroughly fanatical about District 12's tributes.

The clips began with another examination of Peeta's left leg. Obvious infection has spread; the flesh is dying and starting the first stages of rot. Following are clips from a story Katniss told about when she bought me my goat. I beam at her joy in remembering that day. Peeta flirts with Katniss all day, with an honest, dry sort of manner. Probably that's just how the Gamemakers have edited the footage. Still, it almost seems like Katniss is struggling not to flirt back.

Claudius Templesmith made another announcement that afternoon. There would be a 'feast' the following morning at sunrise in front of the cornucopia. The announcer says that each district's remaining tributes need something specific and each item will be provided. He fails to elaborate on what those things are. Obviously, District 12 needs medicine.

Peeta and Katniss argue over whether she should go. "No, you're not going."

"I am going and you can't stop me!" Katniss retorts sharply.

Peeta's reply is disjointed. "You go and I'm going too." I wouldn't bet that he could even stand. He's either delirious or this conversation is trimmed in length through careful edits.

"What am I supposed to do? Sit here and watch you die?"

"I won't die, I promise. If you promise not to go."

The replay switches to a slow motion clip of Katniss and Peeta kissing. It's less awkward than their first kiss, and yet, still odd for the pair. I really hope Gale isn't home yet. Hope he's not watching this.

A gift floats to Katniss on a parachute. Haymitch sent her a liquid tranquilizer of some sort. She mashes it into a berry paste and spoon feeds it to Peeta. He even recognizes the deception on the last bite, too late. That must be why he's sleeping so heavily. Well, and his body is in terrible shape.

So, my sister tricked the boy, in order that she could return his favor. Maybe the other tributes will be vulnerable at the feast and this awful Hunger Games can be ended. Katniss has her bow and some arrows. She could hit any tribute that set foot near the cornucopia! With her eleven rating, she must be able to hit almost anything.

Gale said her superior skills with the bow, couldn't have alone garnished the eleven rating. And of course, the other tributes who have managed to survive this long will also be viewing the feast as an opportunity for offensive attack, rather than merely a chance to obtain necessary supplies. What is always needed most is victory.

I really hope Gale isn't watching these replays. Are all boys so smitten by girls that they don't even want other boys around them? I can't recall ever seeing Dad tell Mom not to talk to other men. He wouldn't have told her that anyway. I know it in my heart, so maybe it's just a teenage response.

Nevertheless, Gale is aggravated that Katniss is becoming so close to Peeta. Or that she's letting Peeta become important to her. Of course they're becoming close! They have a chance to win together and have had to survive the ordeal mostly alone for two weeks, three if you count the week of preparation. With the loneliness of the arena, Katniss must find his companionship crucial.

Night has settled in. The shot suddenly changes to show Verona. She's at the edge of the forest, demarking the plain with short grass, landmine pits by the lake, and the massive, golden cornucopia. Does she think the announcer said the feast was at sundown? She's sweating a lot and her whole body trembles. She must be terrified or fatigued. The girl never appeared as though she was afraid before, so it's curious that-

Verona dashes madly into the open moonlight, her skin glistening silver with sweat. Reaching the cornucopia, she ducks inside shrouded from the elements and threats. She's going to hide until the morning so as to be closest to the feast when it arrives. That will depend where the Gamemakers deposit the supplies.

Mom goes to bed and I follow suit. Tomorrow is Sunday, another day off. The feast is going to be provided at sunup, only a few hours after sunrise in District 12. Jitters of anxiety still grip me each time I see Katniss in the arena. This time, though, I know when something will happen.

That's worse, I realize, once my head hits pillow. Instead of wondering when encounters may happen, my mind relays a thousand potential disasters. No matter what, Katniss is up against four other tributes, including the careers from District 2. Still treacherous even starved. The hollow desperation of hunger might make them unpredictably dangerous.

I toss and turn in my cold bed for hours, exhausted, begging my imagination to quit churning. Buttercup won't leave me alone, either. The cat walks all over me, making it harder to get comfortable.

Then Mom is waking me, just like that. Dim sunlight already streams in through the dusty windows. Just like that, feeling as if I haven't rested a wink, except that I must have slept at least a little. It just doesn't feel like it. Mom has the television on. She gives me some mushy grain meal for breakfast. A vague hint of cinnamon seasoning makes it quite good.

Katniss is watching the cornucopia from the broad tree line. She's wearing a rudimentary set of mittens made out of extra socks. I recognize that it's the same spot which she used to watch the Careers before destroying their supply dump. She takes off those weird glasses as the morning brightens ever so slowly. A foggy haze collects over the arena, not nearly thick enough to impair visibility in the field.

The image switches to Thresh crouched like a tiger in the wheat, studying the expanse. He's massive and patient, seemingly unaffected by the chill that saps at everyone else.

Cato stalks through the woods near the edge of the plain, searching for any tribute who may be contemplating a sprint to the feast. Clove has her own hiding spot a good three hundred yards away from Katniss.

Another corner-shot displays Peeta, only to reassure the heartsick Capitol that their romantic hero is still alive. They must be falling all over themselves watching the two tributes kiss and spar emotionally. How tragic, they moan. It's all an illusion though. If they really, really cared about Katniss and Peeta, the Games would end and the tributes would all leave the arena alive.

Instead, the Gamemakers have set up another bloodbath, luring each tribute independently. The shot of the cornucopia reveals Verona, glistening with sweat despite the chill. She must be sick as well, I speculate.

The ground splits near the gaping maw of the golden horn and a stone table slides up into place. Four different backpacks rest on the slab, their sides stitched with district numbers, little information bubbles on the screen indicating what's contained in each backpack; the medicine for Peeta is contained in the daintiest backpack, tiny compared to the others. District 2 is getting chain mail armor. Thresh is being given a ghillie suit, whatever that is.

I barely have enough time to read the label on the green backpack, "Insulin kit," when Verona blasts out from the cornucopia, snags the pack, and blazes her way to the tree line before anyone can react. It was a wise move on her part. She managed to get away with her feast, leaving the rest of the tributes to scrap for their own. We don't have insulin in District 12. If you get diabetes, it's a death sentence. District 5 must be a little better off than we are if they can afford to buy that.

The screen switches back to Katniss' angry scowl. She steels her determination. Mom grabs my hand and squeezes hard. Katniss breaks out of the bushes running hard for the table. The shot adjusts to show Clove charging out of the forest, straight toward Katniss, knife already in her hand.

Katniss turns as Clove throws and miraculously smacks the spinning blade out of the air with her bow! A split second later, she returns an arrow toward the girl from District 2.

Clove tries to dodge as the arrow lodges in her left arm just below the shoulder. I want to clap, or jump up and shout that Katniss has taken down another enemy, except Clove doesn't fall, doesn't hesitate for a single breath! She yanks the arrow out with her right hand, all the while trying to close the distance to Katniss.

Katniss arrives at the table and snatches the tiny pack onto her wrist. She draws another arrow. My whimper wishes for a perfect kill. Katniss never pulls the string back. Clove's second knife strikes her in the forehead and skips off the rough angle of bone! Blood pours from the wound, gushing over her face. "No!" my voice moans. Mom's hand clenches mine, the other covers her mouth.

Katniss stumbles, disoriented. Clove tackles her, disregarding the pain that certainly plagues her punctured arm. The image changes again so we can see their faces, blurred in my vision. No, this can't be happening! "Where's your boyfriend, District Twelve?" Clove's voice is savagely sweet, menacingly smooth. "Still hanging on?"

"He's out there now, hunting Cato." Katniss bluffs. "Peeta!"

Clove grabs her neck to choke off the screech. She watches and listens for a response from the forest. Of course, Peeta is still sleeping like a far-off rock. Clove smiles and looks back to Katniss. The girl from District 2 is at least four inches taller than my sister and spent most of her life much better fed. Katniss is hopelessly pinned.

My stomach turns, not because I feel guilty or because I hate the Capitol. I just want my sister back. I cry, my voice eking out weak notes of sorrow. The pain is unbearable even as I wrap my arms around Mom, burying my face in her shoulder. She embraces me, her own mourning shaking her body.

"Liar," I can't see the nightmare, but I can still hear the broadcast over my sobs. "He' nearly dead. Cato knows where he cut him. You've probably got him strapped up in some tree while you try to keep his heart going. What's in the pretty little backpack? Medicine for Lover Boy? Too bad he'll never get it."

Clove pauses for an eternity. Can't this just end? Why does Katniss need to suffer more? "I promised Cato if he let me have you, I'd give the audience a good show."

Fury, agony, shock! There's nothing I can do, so I squeeze Mom tighter, willing the rest of the world out of existence, so the universe is just me and her. That's all our family will be now, my mind says. Half left.

"Forget it, District Twelve. We're going to kill you, just like we did your pathetic little ally... What was her name? The one who hopped around in the trees? Rue? Well, first Rue, then you. And I think we'll just let nature take care of Lover Boy. How does that sound...? Now, where to start?"

I don't dare look at the screen. Katniss faced the arena alone and even in the comfort of our mother's arms, I don't have the will to face the very end with her. I'm so angry and scared and sad.

I can't stop thinking how Katniss told Peeta about my goat, Lady. How happy we were when she brought it home on my birthday, even sick as it was. Lady was a wonderful gift, the best ever. I've cared for the goat and pampered her as much as I can. For a moment, I can simply shut out the Hunger Games, the villainy of the Capitol and just remember Katniss loving me, caring for me every second of her fleeting life.

Clove's voice invades my senses again, refusing to give Katniss a decent end. "I think we'll start with your lips." The words are silky and teasing and horrible. "Yes, I don't think you'll have much use for your lips anymore. Want to blow Lover Boy one last kiss?" All of a sudden, her composure vaporizes; her voice blackens with seething hatred. "All right then. Let's get started.

I don't want to look. I can't look! My head turns of its own will and my eyes catch Clove lowering a sleek blade Katniss' face. My stomach threatens to return my breakfast.

The Gamemakers switch cameras. Thresh zooms along the ground with unrealistic speed and grace. He slams into Clove and swings her into the sky, where he shakes her with rage and then whips her back to the ground! "What did you do to that little girl? You kill her?"

"No! No, it wasn't me!" Cloves crawls backward, astonished by Thresh's explosive interruption.

"You said her name! I heard you. You kill her? You cut her up," Thresh jabs a finger toward Katniss, eyes never leaving Clove, his spindly fist wrapped around a hefty rock, "like you were going to cut up this girl here?"

"No! No, I-" Her face contorts into terror, her sultry, sadistic persona vacating her forever. "Cato! Cato!"

A distant voice calls back and in a corner-screen Cato turns, yelling, the audio from that feed muted. Clove is done for with one mighty swing of the rock in Thresh's powerful grip. She collapses; limp, not yet dead, but well on her way.

Thresh whips around to Katniss. "What'd she mean, about Rue being your ally?" Thresh's eyes gleam with a ferocity I've recently come to understand.

Katniss fumbles for words, blood drying on her face. "I - I - We teamed up. Blew up the supplies. I tried to save her, I did. But he got there first, District One." She trembles and I tremble with Mom.

"And you killed him?"

"Yes. I killed him and buried her in flowers. And I sang her to sleep." Katniss' voice cracks with anguish.

"To sleep?" Thresh calms somewhat, fist and stone still menacingly poised.

"To death. I sang until she died. Your district... they sent me bread." She sniffs and Mom and I whimper. "Do it fast, okay, Thresh?"

Thresh considers this, his frown laden with conflict. Then he points at her. "Just this one time, I let you go, for the little girl. You and me, we're even then. No more owed. You understand?" Thresh looks toward the tree line. "You better run now, Fire Girl."

My heart pounds, almost rattles my ribcage; my hand escapes Mom's so I can clap. The exhilaration brings me to my feet, cheering as Katniss half runs, half stumbles to the woods, blood oozing from the laceration on her head.

I had hoped the feast would go better. And yet it could have gone so much worse, almost did! Restless adrenalin surges within and it's minutes later before I can sit back down. Mom beams a beautiful smile at the television, almost fainting from joy. She loves Katniss, even though Katniss doesn't let her get very close. I'm dancing on my toes, prancing back and forth in the room as Katniss heads for the creek. Even when I sit back down, I twitch with jittery excitement.

The screen switches to Cato, remanding my sister to a corner-shot. Thresh has disappeared again, taking his pack and Cato's back to the fields. Cato calls Clove's name, falling down at her side. He shakes Clove's limp form which still holds onto some faint threads of life. "Clove! Wake up!" She's too far gone, already comatose. It won't be long now. He presses her lifeless frame to his chest and then lays her back into the short grass.

It takes Katniss a long while returning to Peeta. Her extra socks serve as bandages, slick and red with blood. She lost a troubling quantity. You can't keep doing this to a starving body. There's no fat left for her system to pillage. She needs nourishment to recover. She needs medical care. She needs Mom and me.

I take a deep breath and sigh, struggling to rid my veins of the hyperactive rush that drove my restlessness. Katniss crawls back into the cave. Peeta is still lost in slumber, dead to the world and nearly to himself. Katniss fumbles as she opens the miniscule zipper and shakes out a box. Inside is a needle filled with some sort of fluid.

Mom doesn't say anything so I doubt she knows what it is either. If it can heal Peeta in his condition or at least help him, it must be way beyond anything we've ever had in the apothecary shop, or even at the doctor's office. She pokes the needle into Peeta's arm and depresses the plunger. I hope she hit a vein. Katniss struggles to stay awake and loses the battle, collapsing back against the cave wall, unconscious.

She's a wreck. A pale, exhausted, starved, bloody, scarred wreck. My sister looks worse off than Peeta, despite his leg which remains hidden under the sleeping bag. There's a chance Katniss won't wake up. About equal with the chance that she will, I dread.

Mom shares my apprehension and tries to reassure us. Her tone shakes with her pity. "It's the exertion, Prim... She didn't loose too much blood. She's only in shock so her system can recoup some energy."

I nod faintly, wanting to return Mom's hope. I don't have any words. I feel like throwing up.

She got the medicine into Peeta. She set herself aside again and went into the maw of evil for someone else. For this boy she hardly knows. How is Gale feeling right now, watching Katniss broken and passed out, clawing for a handhold, trying to keep Peeta alive? It's harsh watching my sister suffer. That's all Gale is feeling, even about Peeta, I tell myself. Love does weird things to people.

Thresh is back in the wheat fields, already quite distant from the cornucopia. His towering legs generate wild speed. Cato has cautiously ventured into the long grasses. Good. Let Cato and Thresh kill each other!

I gaze at Katniss in the corner-screen, her body limp. How many times has she passed out in the Hunger Games? How can we go on and live with this saturation of panic and emotional stress? The day will contain little more for my sister, and there are plenty of chores to be done. Mom and I won't be able to concentrate on them, except there's no choice. In District 12, there's no _real _day off, or else you can't survive.


	21. Chapter 21

21

Bitter copper taste invades my tongue. I've been biting the inside of my lip and now it's bleeding. If there's one thing Scipio was always right about, it's the need to focus anger properly. I can't operate without maintaining a mastery over the passion that keeps me going. It is no longer fury which will push me to action, so much as a firm grasp of the situation.

Scipio will never initiate a plan. He's too terrified of rattling our chains to ever try wrenching the bonds from our wrists. Action is an obvious risk, since it will be met with certain retaliation, swift and brutal. Scipio has had years to prepare and he insists that the time is coming. Everything is ready. He's just waiting for orders which are never going to materialize!

I spent all of Saturday contemplating how to warn whoever the underground has within the Peacekeepers. There's no way to know who that would be though. Any mistaken attempt to contact anyone is sure to bring me down. Rebellion can't be put on hold for fear of friendly casualties. Scipio is ready to sacrifice men to hide his rebels, just not to use them! _That_ is why I must act.

Saturday evening I modify the plan. Change is necessary in any event, granted the short supply of cut cord I have available. Everything hinges on the aged cable functioning close to its manufactured specifications.

Sunday, I made three laborious trips, bringing materials and tools into the Main Office and stashing them in the gaping crawlspace. I was terrified there would already be a warrant for my arrest on the first trip, but the guards let me through with only a cursory glimpse at my identification badge; contempt that shall kill.

Monday morning. I'm watching the replays. Everything that goes on in the arena is live-action meant to tantalize the fools in the Capitol. Rue is gone. Nothing will bring her back. Someone has to stand up and make sure that her fate isn't shared ever again. No measure can go too far in bringing an end to the Treaty of Treason and the tyranny of the government that created it.

Thresh is still alive, still being tracked by Cato. Verona appears to be doing much better than she had been. Whatever an insulin kit is, it was extremely helpful. She hasn't made a single offensive move since games began, opting to wait out the other tributes unto the end.

I shut off the television and look at the papers I've scribbled on, rereading the final draft of my plan. Even though I already have it memorized, checking over is wise. Afterward, I burn it in the stove.

Meyla already left for the Amaranth's this morning. She and I haven't talked; we've returned to our proximate estrangement. It pains me to see what this life has given her. I didn't choose it. These events chose us, chose me.

Outside the sky is clear and yellow with a fierce rising sun. People shuffle from their homes to the fields or to the jobs they maintain when they don't have field duty. Apprehension returns. It's a new day. My warrant may be placed, now. Might be placed at any time.

As I approach the plaza, heart pounding, the world bleeds away color, leaving a grayscale image. Blinking doesn't remove the affect. I see the Justice Building off to my left, cold and gray, looming over Three Corners like a raptor, preparing to swoop down and seize a rodent. A few people watch the screens, the Hunger Games butchery. My edgy eyes catch glimpses of color; the tint of green sleeves and blue rank insignia over slate gray Peacekeeper uniforms.

Obviously, my mind is playing tricks, so I give my head a gentle shake to try to clear away the effects of stress. I need to be absolutely certain in every movement. There's not enough cut cord for mistakes, and never forgiveness from the Peacekeepers.

Approaching the side door, the green sleeves stain everything in my vision, staining the whole world a sickly lime pallor. "Badge, sir?"

I show my identification, fingers quaking, sure that this time I am caught. Dizziness swims before my eyes and I half-convincingly fake a yawn for cover. If there's a warrant out for me, no act will suffice.

He scans my ID, and then looks at me. His eyebrows arch ever so slightly upward, nevertheless then he opens the door and waves me in. Once inside the Main Office, my panic recedes, heart rate declines. I wipe cold sweat from my forehead. The world begins to look normal again, stretching before me are the Main Office's pasty blue walls that could have used a new coat of the bland paint a decade ago.

No one looks at me, assuming that permit of entrance was enough scrutiny for a lowly District 11 resident. Even after all these years of working on government buildings, it's doubtful that many of the enlistees recognize me. Few of them stay in the same district more than three years running.

Nervous trembling racks my knees, I climb the final case of stairs into the crawlspace; its gaping hugeness reveals the scope of this massive complex. My plans changed so that I will focus my sabotage on only one wing of the building. For one reason, I don't have nearly enough cut cord to even approach full destruction of the entire Main Office. Not by a long shot. That would require several thousand feet worth and several days for set up, since the entire catalyst must be within this seldom-patrolled crawlspace. Orchestrating such a complex demolition is beyond my capacity. But a single wing? I do have the manpower and the technical capacity to pull down a single wing, so long as the blasting cord functions as intended.

Demolition begins at ground level, letting the full weight of each floor to collapse the entire building. This attack will begin with the roof, requiring the momentum of the falling girders to crush away the lower level supports. The likelihood of pulling this off is about equal with the odds of failure.

My gear has already gathered some dust overnight. Two hundred and some odd feet of cord, a few drills with extra batteries, several rolls of compression padding, thick tape, radio-activated blasting caps, a dozen, dozen and a half tensioners, and blueprints, marked up in my elusive shorthand.

Blueprints are helpful but they're not exact. Building plans are never exact, especially not a hundred years after the fact, because the ground has shifted, the foundation has settled, and the building has been hit with a bomb, ineffectual as it may have been. There are small differences. The plans will just give me an overall reference.

I walk through the crawlspace into the northwest wing and back, marking locations on rusty steel girders with a wax pencil, taking measurements. After two hours, I think I have everything worked out. Some adjustments on locations because of stress indications. In all though, the plan is extremely close to the blueprints.

Tensioners first. They're long rods that expand in length as you work a lever pneumatically pushing out a second pipe with a foot pad. Mason and I used these to put pressure on steel, to guarantee proper distance between girders as we worked additional bracing into place. Today, they will push the girders out of alignment, if the cut cord can blast through the steel; they will ensure each misaligned beam is fully compromised.

There are only eighteen tensioners and each of them is set very carefully to maximize damage. I could really use eighteen more. I don't have eighteen more. I could really use another ten thousand feet of cut cord, although I don't even have a thousand.

This has to work! My mind wills it to work. Bringing down the northwest wing will do tremendous damage to the Peacekeepers. That's the barracks for enlistees. It would be a few days at least before replacement Peacekeepers arrive and by that time, Scipio could control the entire district! The war would be at the train yard and in the skies, not in the midst of our populace.

I pull out the drills and grind holes in a hundred locations on the superstructure. Drilling through metal can take a while, draining the batteries swiftly. When all the juice is gone, my hands switch over to delicate work placing the cut cord.

My forehead sweats out concern that the volatile, aged cable will detonate in my grip when I slice it. Its plastic surface is still shiny and smooth, having been wrapped up waterproof on a spool since it was manufactured. All down the side of the yellow cord, fine printing reads, "DANGER! HANDLE WITH EXTREME CAUTION! KEEP AWAY FROM FIRE! AVOID ELECTRICAL DISCHARGE! KEEP AWAY FROM CAUSTIC SUBSTANCE! DO NOT CUT WITH TEETH! DO NOT PLACE BENEATH EQUIPMENT! DANGER!" The warning repeats over and over, along the length of the tubing.

Do not cut with teeth? I smirk each time I see the word teeth. Can anyone really be foolhardy enough to think trying that would be a good idea? Plus the plastic explosive inside the casing is a specially composed clay with the chemical explosive suspended in its pores. It couldn't possibly taste good, but then who would know? You'd probably kill yourself finding out.

I wrap coils of the cable around girders and support beams, all the way into the northwest wing. Each set of coils, taped into place, leaves a little extra length hanging off. Over the actual wing itself, there's less reason to think the cut cord will be capable of damaging the secondary upright supports. Instead, each coil is wrapped to separate the roofing structure from the beams, so the uprights will puncture the roof on detonation and the collapse will fall around each support.

Wrapping up the nerve-racking task, I decide to take a break and drink some water. I'm drenched with sweat, probably dehydrated. The crawlspace is excessively warm and this job is excessively dangerous. My heart rate thunders and I need to calm down. It's about to get a lot more hazardous.

Plastic explosive is actually not very dangerous, compared to other explosives. The charge that propels bullets in Peacekeeper guns is immensely more prone to accidental detonation. The shell casing protects it rather well and the Peacekeepers never think twice about carrying each little explosive round on their hips or backs.

While resting, I go over the plan again and again. Destroy the barracks. It's unlikely that Scipio's contacts are in the barracks. Enlistees aren't around long enough to trust, generally. Even if they're trustworthy, they don't have enough clout to make a difference. Whoever is holding Covas and the Capitol at bay is an officer, or maybe officers.

Their quarters are on the north east wing, which may suffer some damage, if the barracks wing completely collapses. Should be minimal though. In any case, I have to do everything possible to utterly demolish the barracks and whether or not someone on Scipio's side is harmed, this cannot be deferred.

It takes half an hour to cool down and my heart doesn't comply with the rest of my body's relaxation. My senses are jumpy, not just from the explosive cut cord. My breath comes heavy as soon as I resume working. I may soon have justice, revenge, for my son's murder! I have no idea whether Jura Penrose will be inside the barracks, but my plan is to blast the cords this evening, when most of the enlistees will be settling down in their bunks for the night.

Next come the padding rolls. I start with the most vital sections since there's less padding than there was leftover cut cord. Each roll is a massive bat of specifically woven fiber which captures the pressure generated by the cord and reflects it inward at the instant of explosion. Ultimately, the padding shreds, but not before it magnifies the power of the detonation, knifing right through the steel. I make sure to wrap around each little bit of cut cord that hangs off, so it remains in the open air. That's where the blasting caps go.

I was right. The padding runs out with four more locations to go. After mulling it over, I pick a substitute that is woefully inadequate. Tearing my bags up takes a few minutes and leaves me without a way to carry out my supplies. I'm sure this action will end my common need for the drills and batteries. You never know, they may come in handy during the rebellion, once we can get the power back on.

Strips of torn canvas are held in place around the cut cord with the remaining rolls of tape. The last cut cord location is only wrapped in tape, the remainder of the roll. It won't be enough, I think, even though it has to be! It has to be sufficient, because this is all I can do. There's nothing more.

My hands shake as I attach the blasting caps and activate them to a single radio frequency. I move backward from the center of the northwest wing toward the hub, finally wrapping up this long day's work with a blasting cap on the girder, right beside its attachment location to the gigantic metal ring. My quaking is so bad that I drop the cap, imagination scheming demise, watching it fall in slow motion!

It plunks against the dusty wooden floor without firing. Far too nervous about this! The cap wasn't activated. It would detonate only if I hit it with a hammer, and besides, a blasting cap is only a weak primer. The real danger lies in the old cut cord, which may not retain much power at all.

Once the final cap is in place, activated, I look back into the crawlspace and run through a checklist in my mind. Tensioners, holes, cord, padding, caps... Is there anything else I can do? My imagination churns, trying to find some additional measure to make sure this 'accident' goes according to plan.

Maybe a way to start a fire upon detonation, something I can do to an electrical socket that would start a blaze? However, there's no way to know what will happen to the structure on detonation. The electricity might short out immediately, besides the chances of getting caught rigging anything on lower levels makes it too dangerous.

I should leave while I can and wait for evening. What time is it, anyway? My feet clomp down the stairs and thump on the tile floors retracing my steps. Just another day at work checking for structure problems. I reinforce my face and body to mask the extreme paranoia and excitement that seizes me. No one takes any notice of old Kippen Silvernale. For once, I appreciate the disregard, thankful for the callousness treating me a commoner. A secret grim reaper.

Offices drift by in my saunter. Every ounce of will is expended to keep my pace slow and methodical, at false ease. In my coat pocket the signaling transmitter swings with each step, tapping my belt, begging to be activated. Control yourself, Kip; patience is key. Detonating now, at the height of the day, will only bring down the roof upon a few, too few. The remaining Peacekeepers would react vengefully against the population, their hatred using abuse as a release valve.

Scipio has to intervene before they can reinforce the broken ranks. He has to! The people have suffered long enough; all of our lives and all of our parents' too-short lives. The time is now! This evening begins the end of injustice in District 11 and by example the rest of the districts should follow.

I pass out of the door, into the evening sky. The sun is almost gone from the horizon, orange streams flaring across the cloudy sky. Soon they will be showing replays of the days events and then the Peacekeepers will turn into the barracks for the night. My tension doesn't subside.

I walk to the plaza and look at a screen. Katniss and Peeta are talking. She looks pale as can be, having lost plenty of blood from her head wound. She's sitting up now. Whatever medicine she gave Peeta really worked a miracle. He's taken a definitive step back from the brink of death.

That's good, I muse. If two can survive the Games this year, well, two making it home is better than one. Katniss' mockingjay pin is unavoidable in the streets now.

Peeta's speaking, holding Katniss' hand. "Don't try something like that again."

"Or what?" Her voice is weak.

"Or... or... Just give me a minute."

Katniss smiles teasingly. "What's the problem?"

Peeta frowns. "The problem is we're both still alive... Which only reinforces the idea in your mind that you did the right thing."

"I did do the right thing."

"No! Just don't, Katniss!" Peeta bursts out. "Don't die for me! You won't be doing me any favors, alright?" He loves her. Everyone knows it. And not the childish sort of crush that every kid goes through around their age. He set himself up to die for her and the Capitol watches with adoration and glee, faux compassion, as though they can do nothing about this tragedy of circumstance.

Peeta's assurance that Katniss' death would end him hits home with a hollow resonance. I can relate. It's strange how mature these children are.

Katniss' response falters when she loses herself in the words. "Maybe you aren't the only one who... who worries about... what it would be like if..."

Peeta watches her for a second and lets his affection creep back into his tone. "If what, Katniss?"

"That's exactly the kind of topic Haymitch told me to steer clear of." The drunken mentor from District 12 is becoming something of a celebrity with all the romantic attention paid to these two. His interview has been replayed almost in full several times in the past two days, during the slower segments in the arena, interspersed with interviews of relatives of the pair: Katniss' sister, mother, and cousin Gale, and Peeta's parents and two brothers.

"Then I'll just have to fill in the blanks myself." Peeta leans over and kisses Katniss gently, his fingertips brushing her thin cheeks. Katniss visibly shivers at the loving contact; her hands reach out to touch his collar.

Peeta lingers over her face for a moment and then says, "I think your wound is bleeding again. Come on. Lie down. It's bedtime anyway." The two bundle together inside the sleeping bag to stave off the chills of night induced upon the arena by the Gamemakers.

There's a coffee shop on the edge of the plaza in Three Corners that serves an almost decent cup. Coffee isn't nearly as expensive as most drinks, although it can be if you add cream and sugar. Anything that can go in coffee gets expensive, but the brew is reasonable.

Although lukewarm, taste-wise, it's fine. I sit down on a bench and drink the brew, watching the distant screens and the people gathering around them. I suspect the replays have started because there are some shots of people being interviewed about their friend or family member who is a tribute clinging to life. Then there are slow-motion reruns of Katniss and Peeta kissing.

Cheering crosses the paved plaza. What does it matter that these two kids are coming to love each other? They probably both will die, the condition they're in. Everyone should feel sad that they didn't have a relationship in District 12, where it would have blossomed naturally, unhindered by the policies of the Capitol. It's such a shame, really.

The sun has entirely descended below the horizon, not even a glow smears the sky. When there is nothing except candlelight, millions of stars glitter every evening, even the fuzzy haze of the Milky Way galaxy. Much of it is blotted out tonight as people take full advantage of the electricity, lighting up Three Corners. Every light is shouts its life to the world.

All the replays have finished, nothing else happening. The screen shows a dark field of heavy rain, or maybe that's film-static. It was raining when Katniss and Peeta kissed, their own little cove dry from Katniss' earlier efforts.

I decide to wait half an hour, soothing myself with the cooled coffee. Peacekeepers would be in recreational rooms and break rooms and common rooms, shuffling back to call it a night. Mondays are the start of Panem's six day work week. No one is very active on a Monday night.

People leave the plaza, soon it's almost empty. With electricity at home, residents can stay awake to spend time with their families if they desire. Most likely though, the hard day of work will have exhausted them and will pull them to bed whether they want to go or not.

I'm quite tired too, adrenalin-soaked legs wobbly and aching from the trembling and walking and crouching. My mind goes over the checklist once more, though there isn't anything in the world that would get me back into that Main Office. You couldn't drag me there with every Peacekeeper in District 11!

A dozen scenarios skip through my consciousness. What if the RF trigger doesn't work? What if the cut cord detonates but isn't strong enough to damage anything? What if a random Peacekeeper is patrolling and discovers the charges? What if I'm arrested for my vocal crimes and never manage to complete my actual rebellion? What if-?

I silence the questions by reaching into my pocket and flipping the switch cover open. It's only been twenty minutes, but that ought to be enough time, I hope. The button depresses under my thumb.

Nothing happens as I hold the button in. Maybe the batteries need to be chan- A rumble creeps through the air. Although I can only see the south side of the Main Office, a pressure wave audibly shudders past. The explosives have gone off, a faint screech of rending steel zips by, mild thunder of falling roof echoes dimly through the plaza. It's quieter than I expected and my subconscious insists that's because it's not as complete a collapse as I was hoping for.

There _has_ been a collapse. It wasn't just my imagination, the way my eyes see grayscale. Emplaced sirens come to life around Three Corners, blaring an ear-splitting tone that warbles slowly up and down in pitch. Alerted, remaining Peacekeepers in the plaza take off on foot for the Main Office, and more come scrambling out of nearby buildings.

I stand and finish off the rest of my coffee, dropping the cup back onto the bench. Then I see him. Jura Penrose. His unmistakable face, stricken with intensity, emerges from the Justice Building, rifle at the ready. His eyes scan the plaza quickly and then he joins his comrades in their mad rush toward their headquarters.

I want to scream. I want to throw the cup at him. But my hands clench into fists at my sides until my fingernails on my left hand cut and squeeze blood from my palm. Jura Penrose wasn't in the barracks. My feet whirl me about curtly. I force myself to stomp down an alley. Jura Penrose escaped justice, again. Again!

All of a sudden, my anger is quenched some by another realization. The rebellion is under way now. I have begun the undoing of the Capitol's hold over our people. Soon, perhaps in a matter of mere hours, there will be all out skirmishes between underground fighters and the Peacekeepers. We will have the guerilla advantage and they will fall by the hundreds!

Scipio has to move fast. I trust that his confidantes in the Main Office will inform him of whatever damage I managed to inflict on the barracks. Then he will swing into action, his cards already being laid on the table. "Soon is now, Scipio," my lips mutter wryly.

I can't go home. I can't go to the safe house. And I certainly can't go back to any of the places registered in my name, where my tools and equipment are stored. I can't go anywhere. While wandering, my thoughts hope that these actions won't draw a backlash against my family, against my wife whom I still love. Against the Amaranths who have lost so much already.

If Scipio acts quickly enough, the Peacekeepers will be entrenched in rebel warfare and the culprit of this chaos can likely slip into the shadows, forgotten in the melee of battle. Once the rebellion has taken over, it's likely that my actions will be commended.

I don't want a commendation, though. I want Jura Penrose and Volente Covas brought to face their crimes. "My son is murdered and I'm investigated? A new world is coming, gentlemen." I mumble, looking for a place to hide for the evening. "And your sort are endangered."

Far too dangerous to stay inside Three Corners, I decide. I'll have to spend the night in the outskirts. There's too much risk to lay down in an alley. The Peacekeepers may have patrols looking for anyone out of place. Vagrancy isn't permitted at all in District 11.

Away from the main roads, I leave town and head for the nearest patch of woods that separates the vast swaths of tilled land. Should I sleep in a tree like Rue did? That's ruled out as soon as I struggle to climb one. It's been twenty some years since I have climbed a tree and the talent is long since gone from my limbs. I very much doubt I would be able to sleep on branches anyway.

"How do those kids stand it?" my lips wonder aloud, marveling at the ability of some tributes to tolerate outdoor living. My body is annoyed instantly with itches and chills once I curl up among some bushes. I sense insects crawling all over me. Yet, there are none. It's terribly annoying and just as intolerable as my imaginative scenarios over what will happen now in District 11.

Maybe the coffee wore off. My skin finally quits tingling with crawling critters that don't exist and I rest my exhausted mind. Recap the long days, weeks, and months previous as I wrestled mentally with what to do. Oddly, I am a peace. Even with Penrose and Covas both still very much alive, there's at least a fulminating sense of completion. Tomorrow, the battling will be fierce and I can no doubt join the fight. I should be rested.

With that I enter a dream world, where Rue's eyes and Mason's smile join me and a thousand mockingjay-pinned fighters, in a march upon the remnants of the Main Office. I know it's just a dream. I didn't do that much damage to the building. It's a good dream, though. Penrose and Covas don't survive.


	22. Chapter 22

22

The rest of Sunday, Katniss just slept and on Monday she mostly slept again. There were a few nice moments with Peeta, twisting the knife Gale has in his stomach, I'm sure. Overall, rain and fatigue kept all the tributes from doing much of anything. It was almost like the Gamemakers were happy to keep the action at a minimum so long as they can show Peeta and Katniss huddled together, kissing now and then.

Romance in the Hunger Games, the new hip concept in the Capitol. They decided to let both tributes from District 12 have an opportunity to survive, and are fascinated, cooping them up in the rudimentary cave. Almost all the kids in school are wearing some sort of pin meant to represent Katniss' mockingjay emblem. One boy at school also thought it would be nice to honor Peeta by drawing a red line on his left pant leg, just above the knee. None of the other kids felt that was very thoughtful, Allen Mellark least of all.

It's hard to factor in all the variables to find out if my sister loves Peeta or not. How lonely is she? How much is the romance a factor in getting sponsors? She mentioned something about owing him for the bread when they were kids. I have never heard of that before. Maybe Mr. Mellark would know about it.

Tuesday, the tributes are still beaten down with rain. The hovel Verona created has flooded and forcing her to seek respite under some thick pine trees where the needle-sod ground was still reasonably dry.

I complete my chores, knowing nothing will happen with Cato and Thresh still wandering around in the wet field and my sister snuggling with Peeta in the cave.

When I look at the television again, the corner-screens are gone. The image focuses on Katniss and Peeta. A readout numbers how many tributes remain: four. Someone has been defeated. The Gamemakers are entranced by my sister and this boy, even as they sit motionless, near each other and watch the weather rage outside.

Mom and I sit down for dinner and watch more nothing play out on screen. Food disappears and nothing happens. Gale comes by, glances at the pair on the screen, his eyes glowering at Peeta. He gives us more food and supplies and then leaves, barely acknowledging Mom's thanks and goodbye. I don't understand how he can be so bitter toward Peeta! Katniss and Peeta have traded risk to save each other's lives. Gale should be happy that Peeta was selected in the reaping and not some kid who wouldn't have thought twice about trying to kill my sister.

An hour later, Katniss says, "Peeta? You said at the interview you'd had a crush on me forever. When did that start?"

Peeta thinks back. "Oh, let's see." His arms are wrapped around her. She leans back on him as he rests against the cave wall. "I guess the first day of school. We were five. You had on a red plaid dress and your hair…" Peeta pauses. I remember that dress. Wear and tear shredded it beyond repair, long before I could grow out of it. He continues, "It was in two braids instead of one. My father pointed you out when we were waiting to line up."

Katniss' expression crumples in confusion. "Your father? Why?"

"He said, 'See that little girl? I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner.'"

"What? You're making that up!" Katniss objects. I look at Mom. Her hands clamp over her mouth, her eyes spring with water.

"No, true story!" Peeta insists. "And I said, 'A coal miner? Why did she want a coal miner when she could've had you?' And he said, 'Because when he sings… even the birds stop to listen.'"

"Mom?" Tears stream down my mother's face as she nods.

Katniss replies on screen. "That's true. They do. I mean, they did." She stares into space; the camera zooms in on the pairs' expressions, both of them lost in thought.

Peeta continues, his eyes glazed with memory. "So that day, in the music assembly, the teacher asked who knew the valley song. Your hand shot right up in the air. She stood you up on a stool and had you sing it for us, and I swear, every bird outside the windows fell silent."

Katniss grins and laughs. "Please!"

"No, it happened! And right when your song ended, I knew – just like your mother – I was a goner. Then for the next eleven years, I tried to work up the nerve to talk to you."

"Without success."

"Without success," Peeta grins then. "So, in a way, my name being drawn in the reaping was a real piece of luck."

The tributes listen to the rain. I turn to Mom again. "How come you never told us?"

She shakes her head and sniffs. "Because there's nothing to tell, dear. Your father was my life." She scoots over and pulls me into a hug. "And now you are my life." I lay my head against her shoulder. "The Mellarks have their own family and those things happened so many years ago."

"I miss Dad."

Mom sniffs. "I miss him too, sweetheart."

Katniss' voice interrupts the rain droplets pattering through the forest. "You have a… remarkable memory."

We turn back to the screen to see that she has turned to face Peeta. He reaches out and strokes her face. "I remember everything about you. You're the one who wasn't paying attention."

"I am now," she gazes into his eyes.

"Well, I don't have much competition here," Peeta's lips nearly grin.

Katniss chokes up as she replies. Her voice cracks, "You don't have much competition anywhere." She leans in to kiss him but they're both startled by something. Katniss grabs her bow, arrow drawn in an instant. It's just another gift though.

Peeta crawls out of the cave and grabs it. The pot is bigger than the ones they've received before. He gives it to Katniss. She opens it and steam billows into the cave. The pot contains some sort of expensive stew in the center, surrounded by luxurious cuisine including goat cheese for a little taste of home. I wish I could have donated the cheese for the meal. It makes me happy enough that they have something to eat despite the weather.

Peeta's heartbreaking words genuine affect Katniss. I wonder what Gale is thinking, watching my sister be wooed by another boy. I just want the two to win and come home. There's only two other tributes besides them! This maddening nightmare might be over tomorrow!

How did Mr. Mellark feel watching Dad court Mom? How close were Mr. Mellark and Mom anyway? Mom refuses to talk about it. Mr. Mellark probably won't talk about it either. I'm used to carrying both sides of the conversation at the bakery. He never seems to mind. Enjoys my company even.

The evening draws deep into night. Katniss and Peeta spend most of their sunset talking about Haymitch and his drinking habits, legendary in our tiny district. At last, when the replays begin the first image is Thresh stalking Cato. Thresh is several inches taller than Cato, but his tactics are also far superior as well. He has laced together wheat stalks all over his ghillie suit to make real-life camouflage. The sound of the pouring rain beats down in splats against Cato. On Thresh's suit the water is dispersed as in the field, even concealing the sound of his presence.

He must have followed Cato's wandering, inept hunt for quite a while. Each disjointed shot shows him stalking closer, moving almost mystically through the wheat nearer to Cato who remains oblivious and infuriated. The boy from 2 curses everything except his home district. The rain slaps down upon them. This replay is extended. This must be all that happened today besides Katniss and Peeta's romantic display. With the driving rain, it's understandable.

Thresh hardly moves, choosing his moments exactly during the crashes of lightning and thunder, and when the rain sweeps in the hardest. The Gamemakers accentuate the weather just for this fight. Maybe they can work with such precision or perhaps it's that they cannot, that a small effort for a storm has created so fierce a downpour. The world rages around the boys onscreen.

A powerful gust of wind hurls through the field, flattening the wheat for a few seconds. Thresh's crouched form remains eerily still silhouetted against the gusting landscape. Acrid blue flashes reveal his dark face and then wink out. The wind slows releasing the stalks. Cato recovers his balance, back still to Thresh.

The stalking drags on for a minute or maybe just a few seconds. Thresh creeps ever closer. He doesn't have the rock he used to kill Clove. Someone as strong and controlled as Thresh may not need a weapon, even against Cato.

Cato pauses to look around, not seeing Thresh right in front of him, crouched and unmoving. Once Cato turns back around, Thresh jumps from a crouched position precisely eight feet and tackles the boy from District 2, pouncing on him with all the skill Buttercup demonstrates on field mice.

I don't know who to cheer for because Katniss has to kill whichever tribute comes out on top. It doesn't matter though, since this is a replay and no amount of hope can help anyone in the arena. Even so, my heart pounds as I watch the two boys scramble.

Thresh pummels the back of Cato's skull with brutal force, shocked Cato crumples into the wheat. His elbow whips back and catches Thresh in the ribs, but Thresh holds fast, pinning Cato. His hand grabs Cato's hair, pulls his head up, and wraps his spindly, left arm around Cato's neck. Cato bites hard into forearm, tugging away flesh in his teeth! Blood pours down Thresh's arm. Thresh grimaces as he hangs on, trying to break Cato's neck.

My hands are twisting my own shirt. My stomach floods, disquieted. It's one thing to see injured people. It's entirely something else to watch them injure each other, kill each other. But this is the way of things in Panem. It's one of the aspects of life we have to accept.

Cato manages to get a knee under his belly and pushes up, throwing Thresh off. With practiced dexterity and fantastic rage, Cato grips low on his spear with both hands and swings furiously over his head, pivoting at his waist. His bladed tip arcs in the air, snapping past rain drops, lightning flashes along the gleaming steel!

Thresh sees the blade screaming toward him. There's no time to roll away. His good right arm snaps up above his belly, barely in time to catch the shaft of the spear. Cato swung with every bit of strength in his starving body. The shaft snaps in two against Thresh's forearm which also buckles under the force. Worse, the bladed spear-tip pivots against the broken bones and sinks into Thresh's stomach, a hair above his belt!

Cato falls back from the force of his swing, balance way off. Thresh tries to stand and crumples, his abdominal muscles shredded by the spear head. Agony plagues his face, blood pours through the wheat concealing his chest. Cato regains his footing, unsteady, staring confusedly at the broken shaft in his hand. Thresh already lies limp. Cato throws down the broken spear shaft and searches Thresh, finding the chain mail that had been in District 2's backpack at the feast. He dons it right away, its fit perfect for him, too small for Thresh.

Then the replay shows Katniss and Peeta's discussions in edited form. So, Thresh is dead. It's Cato and Verona. I can hardly contain my hope, though at the same time there's a dread of this undefeatable tribute.

Katniss and Peeta have had a worse time in the arena than any other tribute, except that they haven't died. And now they will have to face one opponent that's probably impossible to catch and another that might be impossible to kill. How can there be hope?


	23. Chapter 23

23

I'm waking up. I can tell by the dull ache in my chest that quivers the dry lump in my throat. Birds sing to the morning sun. I sit up, joints stiff from the forest bed. Eyes blink, trying to rid my mind of this outdoor dream. Oh, that's right. I slept in the woods. It takes a three tries to stand, and then another minute to stretch my joints into usefulness. I don't feel rested at all. How do those kids in the arena do it? Desperation makes easy our limited choices, I surmise.

I brush myself off, ignoring some streaks of mud on my clothes, lingering. My hair is a ratty mess of twigs and leaves. Walking is slow at first, requiring certain determination. One foot in front of the other. "C'mon, Kip. Gotta get moving." The mockingjays warble back and forth with each other, oblivious to my misery.

At the edge of my small patch of trees I look out over the fields and see people toiling a few hundred yards away. They're singing again, the songs pleasant and faint in the distance. Gentle air currents ruffle the rows of crops. We have everything that grows in this district, even a generous tract of land and greenhouses for all sorts of floral produce.

I stumble into the field, heading toward the main road into Three Corners when the realization arrives. It's peacefully quiet. There's neither sound nor sign of warfare. How long has it been since my makeshift demolition? Nine? Ten hours? Maybe Scipio's plan calls for more underhanded ways of taking over areas. Maybe there's going to be a surprise attack that's being arranged right now. No gunfire rings out at all. I can't deny that the area is unsettlingly calm.

Eight minutes walk to Three Corners, take a side alley, move cautiously through the streets, look for signs of struggle or aggression from either the underground or the Peacekeepers. I don't know if anyone nearby is with the underground. Obviously, the Peacekeepers are on edge, their eyes wary from fatigue. They still control the entire District, now more jumpy on the trigger.

What if they recognize me? I hike up my jacket and purchase a hat to shadow my face. It's not a great disguise. Routing my path to avoid any Peacekeepers, I make my way to the plaza. The screens are splashed with the Games, like any other day. A few people stand around each pedestal watching. I wonder if Katniss and Peeta are still alive. Thresh, Verona, and Cato were other tributes. What is today, Tuesday? People shuffle here and there whispering with each other about last night's attack. Whatever became of the Main Office barracks, it's the talk of the town. Certainly whatever damage I managed was sufficient to become a topic of choice.

The Main Office is on the other side of the plaza. I make my way there using side streets as much as possible, avoiding all the government buildings I can. Around the north edge of the Peacekeeper complex, there's a lot of activity. Peacekeepers stand guard while crews of their own ranks work to clear away debris, tossing brick and steel scrap and cots and chairs and a dresser and all sorts of other junk down from shoddily erected scaffold.

I keep a good distance away just far enough to assess the damage. It appears as though the roof collapsed as I planned. Yet, that was as far as it got. It buckled through the crawlspace and crushed down the top floor and compressed only that layer. The three floors beneath were mostly unaffected.

To the west, there are a few rows of blue and green tarps draped over lumps on the street. Bodies. Those I've killed! The dead rest a lot easier with me than I expected. Of course, I didn't have to see their mangled appendages or crushed chests. Not the way I saw Mason's compacted body. And besides, they're Peacekeepers; oppressors and targets in this war. This war that Scipio seems forever unwilling to start!

What is it going to take? What exactly is he waiting for if not this? This is a victory! There! Right there on the street, I almost wave my hand with fury. There are the casualties of our enemy! Let them run in fear and hide! Let them tremble at the might of a stronger foe! Let us take back from the Capitol everything they took from us! I want to scream. I want to find Scipio and grab his collar and shake him. Why haven't you done anything? What sort of leader never, ever leads?

Then I see someone. There, standing near the dead Peacekeepers. Three enlistees talk to each other, their faces exhausted from a sleepless night. No Peacekeeper slept a wink last night. Jura Penrose looks worse than tired. His face is streaked with sorrow, anger bites through his round, well-fed cheeks.

I step back into an alleyway and watch. Other residents of Three Corners are standing nearer, surveying the cleanup as well. As the day moves on, the shift clearing rubble from the top of the building is changed three times. Jura Penrose takes two shifts, himself. They find more bodies and lay them out. The highest officers in District 11 come out from the Main Office to supervise cleanup. At this point, it has ceased to be a search for survivors. There were a few throughout the morning. After lunch only two more bodies are found and huge stacks of wreckage have built up beside the northwest wing.

A few hours after lunch, Covas comes out, counting the dead and commanding the men. He looks furious, as much as the rest of the Peacekeepers. "You'll get yours, Vol," I whisper. "Just wait."

His orders must have been to take the dead to the morgue. A junior officer jots down information about the corpses, probably names and serial numbers or something. Then others lift each corpse on to gurneys being brought in and cart them off down the street. Will there be enough refrigeration units at the morgue?

It's savagely surreal. I brought down the Peacekeepers' security upon their heads. I made them traipse through the streets of Three Corners with their dead jostling on wheeled beds. How can Scipio avoid taking action?

I know my cut cord didn't bring down even a single wing of the Main Office. But this is a huge step forward! I don't think there has ever been an attack on the Capitol's hammer this devastating, not since the Dark Days, since before the Hunger Games existed. We can't back down now!

Sometime after three, the work slows. Fewer hands are on the scaffold, in the collapsed carnage. The officers pull more and more workers from their shift, probably concerned about additional collapse. They'll care delicately for their own men, yet in the fields, whip our children mercilessly to meet the Capitol's quotas.

Where is Penrose? There he is. Sitting, leaning against the scaffold, his hands over his face. Other Peacekeepers mill around, even those returning from work overseeing field crews. In the croplands, the Peacekeepers rotate three shifts during the day to oversee groups of workers who barely take one break during daylight hours. These men won't be allowed to go into the structure. It will be assumed unsafe until examined by an engineer. Surely, Covas knows that I am responsible for this event. My outburst over dinner made that as much clear, never minding what I said at Rue's burial.

I wouldn't be considered trustworthy as an expert on the quality of the structure. I'm the prime suspect! They have to know it wasn't an accident. My imagination runs wild with Peacekeepers breaking down the door to my house, arresting Meyla. I banish those thoughts from my head. I made my choices. District 11 and Panem will have to live with them. If I can survive, I will have to live with those choices too.

Jura Penrose stands up and walks over to the officer who is clearly directing the cleanup operation. Only a few lines are exchanged before Penrose heads off to the east, striding into an alley. "Where are you going?" I wonder aloud.

I hustle back into my own alley and scurry around several others, crossing two main streets in the meantime. I see him, then, still heading east, sure of his path in the maze of back streets and walkways. I follow maintaining a good distance. Penrose never looks over his shoulder.

After ten minutes, he nears the edge of town. Almost at the last building before the fields replace them, he walks down a shallow flight of stairs and ducks into a cellar. There's no window for the cellar, even on the door. Just a wavy-line symbol carved into the panels.

An illegal bar. I haven't been in one of these for a few months. Scipio and I used to meet with other members of the underground in one way over on the western side of town. Some are frequented by Peacekeepers who tolerate the drab pubs because they like cheap swill as much as the business people who can afford a drink or two in Three Corners.

Tension floods my chest as I step nervously down the stone staircase, below street level. I take a deep breath and rap my knuckles on the door. The shadows are darker here; the corner of the building shades my hat which further covers my face. A wrinkly, thin man, a few waxy strands of silver hair slicked across his bald head, opens the door half a foot and glares at me.

"Lookin' for a drink," I grunt in a hushed tone.

"Well, I'm havin' one. Quit knockin' and get in here." He shakes his head annoyed and swings the door wide open, turning back to his drink. Some of these places like to be more discrete. This 'establishment' obviously cares very little for who knows about it. And why should they? After all, Peacekeepers drink here. One does at least.

I close the door and scan the room. It's too dark to see very well. No matter; green sleeves are unmistakable, even in the poor candlelight. A second glance over reveals this basement was never even wired for electricity, since it's such a rare commodity to have, at any rate. Why waste the extra money on wire, outlets, and fixtures that will hardly ever be used? Spend it on booze!

Jura's at the bar already tossing back a third shot of something amber-colored. In a place like this, it'll be homemade so it could be whiskey or straight bourbon. I was never a heavy drinker, but you learn to recognize what's what, living in the Capitol. I shuffle up to the bar. The keep asks me what I'd like. "Beer."

"Light or dark?" He's a thin man with a moustache and pasty skin. His eyes have seen too much dark cellar and too few light afternoons.

I decide to start light and try dark as the mood strikes. I'm dark enough already. Jura is a seat down from my left. No one else is at the bar. Four other people sit at tables around the room, working on pitchers of beer or bottles of liquor. One man is passed out on his table, drool puddling around his face.

Jura drags another two shots, five grimy glasses sit empty. The keep decides to refill those instead of giving him more, although he takes away three of the shot glasses. "Slow down, J.P.! You gotta take it easy, pal. You don't handle yourself so well with that much in you."

Coughing on his sixth shot, Jura groans, already starting to slur, "What's it matter?"

"I know. I know, just make it last, alright? Don't want to overdo it, J.P."

"Yeah... It'd kill me, right? Maybe I-gnnh join 'em, right, Benheh."

Benheh, probably just Ben, slides a coffee mug full of light beer across the bar to me. It's not awful, a little sour, but not gross. He turns back to Jura, "You got a final count yet? How bad is it?"

Jura sips his seventh shot instead of pouring it down his throat. "Twen-six." He clears his voice and speaks carefully. "Twenty... Six..."

Twenty-six dead? A pittance compared to the hundred and eighty that I estimated were quartered in that wing. No wonder Scipio hadn't begun a revolution. Twenty-six may have just been too small. I grit my teeth and pour beer through them.

May as well pry the drunken Peacekeeper for more information. Speaking to him is harder than I thought it would be. I never thought I would ever be in a situation where I'd have a conversation with Jura Penrose. "Lucky you weren't there, huh?"

He glances at me. The hat still covers my eyes. "Not s'lucky, pal. Got three friends dead now."

The beer loosens me just so that it's easier to reply. I decide to limit my rate of intake. Can't get drunk at a time like this. My tolerance is certainly low from deprivation, demonstrated catastrophically before Covas. "Sorry to hear about that." Sip. "What you think it was? Some sort of accident?"

Jura stares at his shot and blinks. His brow furrows, "Well, aksh'lly... I dunno. Didn't really think about it t'just now. Been tryin' to get ever'one out, we can get out."

I nod and tap my mug against the bar lightly. Ben pours more beer into it from a pitcher. I let it sit and air. "Good friends of yours?"

"Best there are..." Jura holds up the last bit of the seventh shot and mumbles, "To good friends, may the'rest in peast."

Matching the toast, I take a tiny sip. My heart pounds, my temples throbbing through blood surged with adrenalin. I've never been this close to Jura Penrose. He's less than four feet away. Talking now. He's almost human, the filthy murderer!

Jura glances at me twice and I try to look straight ahead, hoping he doesn't recognize me. "You know somethin'?"

I cover my face by sipping from the beer as I look at him, "What?"

"I seen... people beat up b'fore. I-I'vvve," Jura forces his words to form properly, if in odd meter. "seen people been shot 'n hung 'n whipped t'death." He picks up the eighth shot and smells it.

Seven shots in five minutes? Either his choice of liquor is watered down or he's a very regular drinker. Can he pay for all this? My mind rushes with questions as I wait for him to finish his point. Suddenly he remembers that he was talking. "Truth is, I v'only seen dead people busted up like _this_ once before."

My fingers tighten around the mug. "You don't say? When was that?"

"I dunno. A year ago maybe?" He sets the eighth shot down, untouched and holds up his index finger. "A Ben, beer." He laughs raucously at his misstatement. Ben sets a mug down in front of him, leaving the shot as well.

"What happened?" I ask, knowing my voice is shaking more than it should. Penrose is plenty drunk. It shouldn't matter.

He waves his hand dismissively. "Eh, some guy. Fell from the just... us Building. I saw it happen. Crunched pretty good on th'stairs. I'was a big deal but it's history."

My jaw shakes with anger. I cover by choking down another sour sip. "You were up there when that boy fell?"

Jura snorts. "He wasn't a boy! He's twenty or so."

"Some people say that wasn't an accident."

Jura's head turns to me and sags with alcohol fatigue, his eyes are darkened in the candlelight. "I may've help'd him 'long a bit."

He turns back to his beer and sips it slowly. I set the mug down and put my hands on my knees, squeezing the fabric of my pants in hatred. I knew it! I always knew it! Those people weren't lying! Volente Covas was the liar and here I have it from the murderer's own drunken, stupid mouth! If only he had been one of the twenty-six dead! If only both of them had been!

Jura continues, "I wasn't thinkin' too much when I did it." He chuckles some tilting the beer into his mouth. "Was kinda drunk, t'tell the truth." He sets his head in his hand and closes his eyes. "All 'cuz of Sandrea."

Mason's girlfriend? Or at least the girl Mason liked? You animal! You'd kill my son because you were jealous that he was flirting with a girl you could never even have? Peacekeepers can't have girlfriends in districts! My hands shake. My chest heaves. My eyes squeeze shut.

The drunken murderer's voice creeps to me with sickening slurs. "You ok, pal? Don' look to good."

"Hey, stranger?" The keep is completely sober. "You alright?"

"I'm fine." My voice manages to growl out. "It's been a few months since I've had a drink." I take a long drag from the mug. "Boy, I've missed it."

"Drink up, then!" Jura raises his shot.

Ben reaches for his hand and says, "Now, J.P., let's let the man alone-"

"Bah! Give him a shot on me, Ben!" Jura grins disgustingly. "Tonight we drink for the dead!"

Ben gives me a shot of the stuff and I was right. Half-water I bet. Looks much thinner and tastes different than regular whiskey. "A toast to the dead, then." The glasses snap back down to the table, my mind finishing the toast. _When you leave, Jura, you shall be joining them._

Jura slowed down significantly throughout the evening, dragging out four beers over another hour, while his system soothed through the alcohol that he initially blasted into his veins. I dragged out four beers total and kept to myself, paying my tab as I drank each mug.

Jura paid me little attention, which is well enough for my self-control. Little is holding me back from killing him, right here and now. These people certainly would have knocked me out and turned me in. You don't witness a Peacekeeper being murdered and do nothing. That's a death sentence on your own head in District 11. A very painful, and quite public death.

Jura finally wraps up his binge by shelling out some money for the alcohol. Ben seems glad to see him go. The man stumbles to the door and I linger for ten carefully counted seconds.

Jura has hardly made it up the stairs; I catch up to him easily. He saunters down the street. "Hey, pal. You need a hand?"

Jura laughs and drapes an arm over my shoulder. "Why not?"

His touch is reviling. Jura's breath stinks and his body odor is deplorable too. "Let me ask you something," I start. "That boy that fell, Mason, was his name?"

"Yeah, you knew of 'im?"

I tilt my head up slightly till Jura gets a good look at my face, his drunken expression slow to react with his surprise. I throw my shoulder into his side. He slams against the brick of another building. The furious power of my movements might surprise me more than it does him. This alley isn't very private, but no one is around at the moment. Rage has taken over, all control lost to the evening breeze!

My hands grab his throat and squeeze, hot redness plunges into my vision, darkening the world out of colors, out of grayscale and into a furious crimson terror! In the dwindling twilight Penrose looks so far away, distant. All I can hear are the songs of homecoming field workers drifting on the wind. Mournful again. Mournful for me, for the circumstance that was thrust upon me. For this moment that I barely feel, detachment tugs away my dreamy consciousness.

Now, I can't hear the notes any longer. Something rips at the air, crushes at my ears; a noise so deafening it seems to rumble through me. My own voice, I realize! I'm screaming! My eyes flash wide with surprise and I wonder how long I have been kneeling over Penrose. My lungs gasp raggedly for air, vocal chords beg for mercy.

Sudden stars swim with through my eyes. Someone grabs me from behind. Penrose's pathetic attempts to swing at me have long since ceased, but I still grip his neck like a vice. His eyes stare at me uncaringly, lifelessly. More hands grab at mine, pulling my fingers back. I can feel tendons stretched too far in my fingers, joints snapping! Still my eyes stay fixed on my son's murderer. My throat howls. He doesn't move. My focus is so pure; his body seems to recede as hands draw me backward, fingers broken. The world winks out.

Cold! Cold water splashes, shocking me to awareness. I'm shivering in a chair. Reflexively my body attempts standing up, arms strain to wrap around myself for warmth. The water is biting, freezing my core! Something restrains me from moving. Tight straps hold my arms fast to the chair.

Jaw seizes uncontrollably with chill. Breath is ragged, bitten by my chattering teeth. My eyes should be adjusting to the dim lighting; so far the room is a dark blur. There are black walls somewhere in the distance and a few men. I can see them vaguely; pick them out because of the buckets.

One steps forward and speaks. "So, Mr. Silvernale. Are you with us yet?" His voice is deep and strong, devoid of emotion. He pushes my head back with his fingers. This Peacekeeper is enormous, an immense man with total control over himself. "Good. I think we can get started then."

Two other Peacekeepers move silently forward, dragging wires with then. They clip electrodes to my skin, one on my left ear and another on my left forearm, pinching the clamps together until the teeth bite through my flesh. My growls of pain are ignored.

The big man talks again. "Okay, Silvernale. This is pretty simple. We want to know who ordered you to destroy the roof?"

In sudden defiance, my lungs spit out a laugh, "Hah!" Mistake. The big Peacekeeper jams a mouth guard in between my teeth and steps back.

Someone turns on the juice like a supernova in my muscles! My chest shakes with an all new sensation. I've never felt electricity like this before! Neck jerks to the left, arm clenches harder than I could ever tell it to, and my rib cage seems to rattle with the thousands, maybe millions of volts sapping through me. My teeth grind with uncontrollable pressure and I manage to gasp out a few shaky screams. No mercy.

Then it's over again and I collapse against the restraints, exhausted, freezing, and miserable. The fingers on my left hand had clenched, despite being broken. They rest at nauseatingly abnormal angles.

"Five seconds, Silvernale." The big man pushes my head to the right and it falls limp. My chest heaves. He adjusts the electrode on my ear. "We'll go for twenty seconds if you don't tell me. Who do you get your orders from?"

Scipio's name almost leaps out of my mouth. Only fatigue saves me from spilling my guts. I think for three extra seconds. "No one." Without hesitating the big Peacekeeper moves to put the mouth piece back in. "Wait! Wait! Think about it!" He pauses. "If-" I cough raggedly. "If this were coordinated, do you think it would have been so... ineffective?"

"Twenty-six men are dead, Silvernale. Eight more are in the hospital. I wouldn't say that's ineffective." His fingers push the plastic into my mouth again.

The juice comes on, wiping away every thought I have, every logical argument at my fingertips. This isn't twenty seconds. It's two hours and twenty seconds! My body fluctuates with the current, my breath held against my control, cheeks shaking. I bite the mouth piece so hard, concern flashes that I'll bite the thick plastic right in half.

An eternity later, the power shuts off. My head hangs limp from my neck, drool adds to the water. It's still freezing cold, although that doesn't seem so bad anymore. I'll take cold over frying any day. Anything but electricity! The mouth guard tumbles from my lips onto the soaked floor.

"That was fifteen seconds. We'll try for the full twenty in a few minutes." The Peacekeepers walk for the door. "Unless you have something you want to tell me." They leave.

I try to pick my head up. It lolls back against the headrest of the chair. My mind stumbles for any sentience, finding little purchase in my tortured flesh. I have to tell them it was Scipio. I have to. Even though he told me not to, that's who they're looking for. I don't have a choice!

Water drips from the chair into the eerily silent room. My mind wonders where this room is. Probably the Main Office or the Justice Building. Either is as likely as neither, though.

The mayor in District 11 isn't very fond of our district. He always wanted to move to the Capitol, taking out his frustration on the residents when no permission was forthcoming. He'd fit right in with them. Part of me wonders if this torture session is being recorded, not merely for analysis and record keeping, but also for the sadistic pleasures of the twisted minds running Panem.

Silence is deafening, my ears ring, some sort of after affect of the charge they pushed through me. Something warm slides down my neck on the left side. Blood, probably from the metal clip. I cough. My abdominal muscles ache from electrically forced over-exertion.

The door opens. Dread consumes me and disgust. Disgust that I would give up Scipio because of my fear, because of the torture. I'm already broken, though. I am as consciously aware of that fact as I am the pain of the electrodes. If they try to push the mouth piece back into my bite, I'll spill my guts. Lie even, tell them what they want to know.

It won't matter that Scipio had nothing to do with my mediocre attack. It will matter that he does run an underground movement. Then, he'll be in this chair with electrodes and frozen with icy water. Would he break so easily? It doesn't matter. I'm broken. Twenty seconds of torture and I'm broken.

It's not the big man this time. Only one person enters. Too dark to see his face. I recognize the weathered voice right away. "Hate to see you like this, Kip."

"Vol?"

"Yeah, it's me."

Maybe I expected to be able to lash out at him, since he's the only person alive that I care to punish. There's no strength left in me though. My arms have never felt so tired. I just want to lie down and sleep forever.

"Kip, I know you didn't have help with what you did." He opens up a folding chair and rifles through a thick folder. "I have manifest records of the last time you purchased explosives. Way too long ago to have been a plot. You weren't even on our radar screen until about a month ago."

I force my eyes to focus on him through the swimming dizziness and murky gloom. Saying nothing.

He continues, "Frankly, it was a poor excuse for a bombing, probably because you didn't have enough materials. I expect the only reason anyone died at all is because you really are a superb engineer."

Silence.

"Most of all, you wouldn't have been caught in the street strangling Jura Penrose, if you were part of an organized effort. He died, by the way." Covas gazes intently at me.

Despite my condition, an awkward, cruel satisfaction warms through my belly. I try to sit up straight, "Then... you know what this is about."

Covas nods. "I'm afraid that won't help you much. The mayor has already signed the order for your hanging. The construction of gallows will begin tomorrow. Until then, I'm going to have to put in the hammock."

That's better than in this torture chamber, I suppose.

Covas stands up and moves toward the door. "I'm sorry, Kip. I truly am, but my hands are tied in this."

With pure rage I spit back, "No! Can't you see?" My arms strain against the bonds. "My hands are tied! Mason's hands were tied! Everyone in Panem has their hands tied so long as people like you keep doing the dirty work for the Capitol. But it won't stay like this forever! One day, Vol, one day things will really change so watch out!"

Covas' fingers tap the folder, eyes stare at me, seeing other places and people. His voice lowers mysteriously, "This is really much bigger than you and I, though, isn't it?" The door clicks shut softly behind him.

Fury rejuvenates me against anticlimax. I was broken and ready to confess. Only my foolhardiness has saved Scipio. I'm half-dragged, half-walked out of the room. The basement of the Main Office is recognizable by its typical paint, even if this area's off limits without escort. The Peacekeepers march me upstairs and out into the plaza, still dripping wet. It's night, now and all the shops are already closed. It's late, maybe even early in the morning.

The hammock is a crude device. We have stocks that people are sometimes placed in, where their wrists and necks are secured in place, making them kneel for hours. The hammock is far worse.

Leather straps are belted to your wrists and ankles. Then the restraints are raised until just your buttocks touch the ground. It wears out the abdominal muscles and mine are already shot from the torture session. I'll be slowly suffocating, while they build the gallows for my execution. You never get to the point where you can't draw breath; it just hurts to do so each and every single time.

I'd rather they hang me sooner than later. That seems easier than... What? Scipio isn't coming to the rescue. He'll sacrifice me for the greater cause. Yet, the greater cause demands urgent movement now! That was why I did what I did. Kippen Silvernale scored thirty-five enemy casualties. That's as good a start as any. There's still a tiny chance that an uprising will save me.

The Peacekeepers secure my hands in the leather straps and my ankles. They jack the chains into winches until my arms are pulled tight over my head and my legs jut up at an odd angle. Clearly, torture, humiliation, and certain doom are not enough, because one of the men punches me brutally in the gut. Thus begins my deliberate suffocation. I cough and hack, head aching, trying to regain breath, each inspiration shoots blistering pain through my body.

And still Mason's smile haunts me. Of course it does. I never expected to forget about my poor son. Rue's eyes stab worse though. Jura Penrose is dead. The Capitol's tyranny lives on. And I won't be there to oppose it. We, the willing, will be killed. Maybe it will never end.


	24. Chapter 24

24

Wednesday afternoon, sometime, Verona, so careful about her diet because of her condition, died from the food she ate anyway. It wasn't blood sugar levels that took the girl down. It was an accidental trick upon her cunning.

Verona followed Peeta and Katniss as they gathered food. Katniss went off by herself to hunt while Peeta gathered berries, leaving bags of fruit at a central area. Verona snuck up and stole some of the food, eating freely instead of having to try to regulate her sugar levels by intake.

Peeta had gathered poisonous berries and unwittingly passed on his mistake to Verona. He had never been outside of the fence in District 12, like most residents of the coal mining town.

Katniss called the berries "nightlock," which even sounds terrible. I had never had to face that fear. The concern over whether something you find in the wild is poisonous or not is always taken care of before Gale and Katniss crawl back under the fence. Nightlock looked like just another berry to me.

That day out in the wild has also given me a new respect for Katniss' physique. Gale is very tall and muscular so the idea of him hiking every day and hauling back heavy packs of food isn't physically impressive.

Alternatively, Katniss is still small. My sister's growing up quickly and still every shot shows she could use an extra twenty-five pounds just to look like a normal sixteen-year-old girl. The bandage on her forehead is dirty and stained dark-brown with blood. The no-longer-swollen tracker jacker stings are in the final stages of healing, bluish-yellow-black smeary bruises. Her ribs form mountainous ridges through her undershirt.

Necessity drives my sister and perhaps new hope pushes her as well. Only Cato remains. Starving Cato stalking ceaselessly through the vast woods. The arena is massive, designed for the twenty or so tributes that make it through the bloodbath on occasion. The last few tributes have to be driven together by Gamemakers' intervention. One year, in a cactus-bushed desert arena, all the Careers went for the cornucopia and every other kid went for cover in the arid foothills, leaving little boot prints in the caked mud and gravel. There was no bloodbath.

I estimate the odds for District 12 are fifty-fifty; better than ever. Cato is stronger, bigger, and faster on his feet. He killed Thresh against all odds. Peeta's leg keeps him from moving very fast, limiting what Katniss can do as well, and he won't be able to help very much.

In my own heart, I know that Katniss has a real advantage with the bow. She brings down rabbits and squirrels with practiced ease. She killed Marvel without any hesitation and nearly killed Clove the same. But the Gamemakers gave Cato a ring-link armor vest, and I don't think there's any way Katniss could possibly know about that. It's just not fair!

Wednesday drew to a close and Cato never found them, didn't even notice the smoke wafting into the sky when Peeta and Katniss cooked some rabbit and squirrel. Cato is visibly shaken: Clove's death, Thresh's beating, and starvation savaging his short temper.

The tributes from District 12 retired back to their cave for the night. I surprised myself by sleeping rather fully in my own bed.

Today is Thursday and school lets out early because the Gamemakers decided to encourage the three remaining tributes to go to the lake near the cornucopia. They drained all the other water sources out of the arena. Katniss and Peeta catch on quickly. Before school was let out, they were nearly to the lake. Cato, still convinced Katniss is hiding in a tree somewhere, continues to prowl the woods, his decision-making powers considerably diminished at this point.

Once school lets out, Gale and I rush back to my house to see if the Games' end will come soon. The only thing we talk about is the fact that Madge still isn't back to school. Has it been a week already since she stormed out in tears?

The end of the 74th Hunger Games doesn't arrive. Katniss and Peeta are almost out of the forest, and yet, Cato is moving in deeper, away from the lake. Gale has to leave to hunt and I have my chores to take care of.

Lady is particularly feisty today, stamping her feet as she eats stale grass in the meadow. I let her graze for a while, then take her back to the pen and milk her, scratching her ears with my free hand. I gather up some cheese and head into the business district for some trading.

Everyone's happy. This is the first time in more than two decades that District 12 looks like it will have a victor. And this year, we may have two! The gifts lavished upon a winning district are sure to be even better this year. In the mean time, people give me extra bonuses for my trades. The old woman who sells fruit gives me a whole basketful! It's shockingly generous and I'm thrilled even as I struggle to carry the massive thing along.

Mr. Mellark is his usual quiet self. I didn't expect him to find an appetite for conversation just because Peeta may come home after all. I linger in the baker's shop to talk a while, since the witch isn't around.

"Mr. Mellark?"

"Hmm?" He grunts, looking up from some dough.

"I didn't know you liked squirrels. Gale told me that he sells you squirrels a lot. He and Katniss used to, anyway."

He shrugs and kneads flour into the bread.

"I've just never seen you eating anything like that before." Hidden behind my words is the fact that he owns a bakery. Why would he need to eat scrappy meat like squirrel? He has a lot to choose from.

"They're fine." He watches me as my gaze slides over the cookies and muffins and cakes and pies and- "Prim, what's bothering you?"

"It's Gale!" My voice blurts out before I can stop myself. "He likes Katniss and that's fine! But he doesn't like Peeta because Peeta likes Katniss too!" I blush, remembering who I'm talking to before I finish the outburst. "I just don't understand."

Mr. Mellark waits, rolling a wooden pin over the dough to flatten it. His hands work quickly, with professional expertise. When I don't elaborate he says, "It can be very difficult watching someone else with the person you love."

"Gale doesn't even _know_ Peeta, though. Not very well anyway."

"It's not about Peeta. He loves Katniss and he's just angry that he can't be there with her, when she needs him."

I look over the wonderful foods again. I was angry at myself because Katniss can't be here with me, when I need her. It doesn't explain why Gale is hostile toward Peeta. "I'm sorry I brought all this up, Mr. Mellark."

"Don't worry about it, Prim." He cuts the dough into a circle and sets the round piece in a pan, expertly forming a silky edge. It's quiet for some minutes. I rest, watch him prepare a strawberry pie.

He's happy that Peeta might come home, how Mom and I are thrilled that Katniss might. We don't really even care about their being victors. It's them we want. "You want a muffin?"

My face lightens. "Can I have one, really?" Mr. Mellark nods. Everyone is so generous today! I select a plump blueberry muffin, wondering if I collected some of the berries myself. It's fantastic! Mr. Mellark smiles, pounding wheat flour into the dough.

Whatever emotional estrangement Gale is enduring, he can just talk to Katniss about it when/if she gets back. Fifty-fifty! Much better than the slim-to-none odds everyone gave her at the outset. She beat those. She has to win! She told me she would really, really try, almost a month ago, ages ago. Cato is already done for, as far as I'm concerned.


	25. Chapter 25

25

Forever and even longer. My shoulders are slowly jarred into certain ligament destruction by every effort to breathe. The hammock is horrible punishment, especially since I have to observe the slow construction of gallows across the other corner of the Justice Building. The Peacekeepers take their time, intentionally leaving me miserably tormented.

Everything on my body either hurts or has long since fallen asleep. My skin is numb where it rests upon the ground. Beneath my tailbone cries for relief. My abdominal muscles are worthless and my legs feel cold, mostly drained of blood. The only comfort is that the bright sun is shielded from my eyes by a big tree next to the hammock pedestal.

People have been watching me, pointing and whispering since I was put up here. No one I recognize. I don't want Meyla or Hannah to see me like this. I look over at the 'workers' and see them sitting around again, drinking coffee and watching the day pass. "Get back-" _Breathe_. "To your jobs you lazy-" _Breathe_. Exhaustion robs away the end of my mutterings. I sigh and sag.

Yesterday, I tried to pick myself up off the ground to get feeling back into my hind end and to reduce stress on my tailbone, but my muscles didn't have the strength to lift my form for more than a handful of seconds. This indignity even includes having no private method to relieve myself. Ultimately, anyone in the hammock begins smelling of their own filth very quickly.

I try to take my mind off all these agonies by watching the nearest screen. My neck moans for mercy. There is no mercy in Panem. Only distraction from the sufferings we endure, so I watch the vile Games.

Peeta and Katniss are at the lake, waiting for Cato who remains deep in the forest. With the gallows being built so slowly, I may just catch how this Hunger Games will end. People throughout the plaza are wearing mockingjay pins, a symbol of solidarity with the girl who sang to my niece.

Dusk slips into night in District 11. While the Gamemakers wait for action, early replays are shown, laced with imagery from earlier events in the Games. Even clips of the three tributes' interviews with Caesar Flickerman are interspersed in the footage. I watch, too distant to hear the audio track.

"Do you understand yet, Kippen?" A voice creeps out from behind the tree. In the dark, I can't his face; the shadows revealing only his silhouette leaning against the rigid trunk.

"Excuse me?" My voice is weak and defeated, almost dull.

"Do you understand?" The voice is familiar… Where do I know it from?

"Understand what?"

"How the world will change. How Panem will change."

"No, I-" A ragged cough erupts from my throats, sending fire through my belly. I gasp for breath. "The world won't change. No one is willing-" _Breathe_. "To take a stand."

"Standing at the wrong time or for the wrong thing is equally foolish as not standing, Kippen." He leans forward. "You'll have to forgive our mutual friend. He felt it too risky to speak with you himself."

Scipio. Always too risky. "Can't make a move, lest it-" _Breathe_. "Rattle our chains, right?"

"Kippen, Kippen… Why rattle the chains until you can break them?" Keva Thos. I've only had a handful of conversations with him. But I recognize his voice now. He ignores my grunt and continues. "You've shaken your chains and they have broken you. We're lucky that our man inside can pin this on you alone. If he wanted to, everyone you know could be arrested and interrogated."

Meyla, Hannah, and Marek, as well as their children. "It was my choice to make-" _Breathe_. "and I'll live with it."

"You'll hang with it, Kippen. We really could have used you when the time was proper. That's all lost now, though."

"My family will be okay, then?"

Keva shrugs in the shadows, "As any other is in Panem."

"Your guy on the inside must be-" _Breathe_. "seems sort of picky in how he helps."

"He must remain concealed. He can't do all things. He can't even investigate Peacekeepers because that would put him on the Capitol's watch list."

My eyes shoot open. "Investigate Peacekeepers?"

Keva shakes his head, "Kip, you've been blinded by your hatred for so long that you can't even see what's right in front of your face. Who do you think got you out of interrogation? Who do you think protected you when you spoke out publicly about your hatred of the Capitol? Who is letting me talk to you right now?"

Volente Covas is the underground's man? He threw Mason's case to the wind because he wants to change the government? It can't be! He's a hateful man who toys with people for his own enjoyment. "Pah! Impossible!" I'm racked on the hammock by more coughs. "What-" _Cough! Deep breath._ "What of the plan then?"

"Been under way for a few months now, moving better than we could have hoped." He looks at my tortured, skeptical face. "You didn't need to know, Kip."

The more people know about a plan, the more likely the information is to get to the Capitol. I grit my teeth, leaning my head against a rigid arm. "Sit here in the dark, let all this continue?" _Breathe_. "How can you stand that?"

"I can't. You couldn't either." Keva nods toward the Main Office. "Everything I do has to have the greatest effect possible. You just couldn't bide your time as the rest of us do."

There will be no revolt. My fate is sealed. Keva doesn't have any children. He wouldn't understand, couldn't comprehend my motivation. Maybe I didn't jumpstart a revolution, but Mason's murderer is dead, and before me. Twenty-six Peacekeepers went too.

"What have you done, Keva?" _Breathe_. "You say I've fouled up... And maybe I have." _Breathe_. "What have you done?"

"I haven't made things harder on the people here."

"What do you mean?"

"Kippen... Do you think the Capitol is just going to let your bombing slide?" He gestures westward. "They're sending in two hundred and fifty more Peacekeepers. Quartered in people's homes and apartments. Do you realize the entire barracks wing is closed off? Kip, there's not a home in Three Corners that's going to accommodate it's owners!"

"Meyla..." My head lolls back, hanging behind my arms.

"Your wife can go live with your sister. What about all these other people, Kippen? Did you really think you could do this all yourself? Did you think at all?"

I don't respond. I'm too weak. I can't do anything about it, anyway. Keva is right. I made my choices and I'll die with them. Whatever harm will come to the district is beyond my capacity to change.

"Frankly, Kippen. District 11 isn't going to be the focus of rebellion. We wouldn't've been in the first place, but it's going to be even tougher now." He pushes off against the tree and heads away from the pedestal. "Our friend wants you to know he's sorry for the way things have worked out."

Keva Thos walks steadily away. I watch him until my neck can't brace my head up anymore. The gallows won't be built soon enough.


	26. Chapter 26

26

Night in District 12. Mom and I decided to eat the fruit basket and buy some other food with the extra money from Lady's milk and cheese. Mom even bought us each a cookie. People in the business district wish good luck to Katniss and us. Like we have any more ability to help the tributes than they do. It's the sentiment that matters.

A hundred or so people are watching the screens in the square, letting Mom and I be ushered to the front. The massive image boasts Katniss and Peeta sitting next to the lake, the rest of the water in the arena drained to drive the tributes to the final confrontation, waiting for Cato who is still quite a distance away. The sun, long since descended on our horizon is nearly resting upon theirs. High wispy clouds grace the sky, like slender feathers, golden-kissed in sunshine.

Peeta has improved further, patchy color caressing into his overly-ashen skin. Katniss is battered and dangerously lean, her gaunt physique barely maintaining. If Cato would ever venture back to the plain, it shouldn't matter how 12's pair are fairing. One well placed arrow would bring victory.

The Gamemakers switch Cato to the main feed. He's aggravated with the extended duration of his hunt. His stomach has thinned considerably since Katniss destroyed the provisions.

A low, gurgling growl seizes Cato's attention. His head snaps to the south, no weapons in hand. The boy takes a step south, telltale goose bumps rising on his neck.

Cato senses danger and wheels about. He bolts in the other direction. The cameras switch rapidly to keep up with his panicked flight. Something gives unearthly savage chase! Spin-chilling howls shake my bones, curl my toes. Cato hammers his way through bushes; leaping off shallow ledges, doesn't even notice his arms scraping everything nearby. Twigs and leaves tangle into the chain-mail armor covering his chest.

A broader shot takes over, from the tree tops, showing Cato's flight, directly toward the clearing a mile or so away. Bounding behind him dash huge wolves of varying colors, their movements awkward, yet swift. I have never seen a real wolf before in my life, staying well within the fence. These look enormous, as big as a man on all fours!

They run, baring sharp teeth, saliva slings from their chops as they hop effortlessly over fallen trees and bushes! Then something stranger happens. In the front, three of the wolves stand upright, racing even faster on two legs! Cato doesn't look back, his sturdy form blazing a trail of terror, bee-lining toward Katniss and Peeta.

Mom grabs my hand. Some of the bystanders point to the animals. They must be genetically modified by the Gamemakers: Muttations. They're grotesque and surreal, more of the things running on hind legs now. In the arena sky, the setting sunbeams streak across the sky, bloody to lavender to azure to pitch, halfway over the fleeing tribute.

The Gamemakers lower the volume of the pursuit and switch images to the pair by the lake. My sister is still oblivious to the coming wave of horror; Cato pursued by these unnatural beasts. Peeta watches the birds fly between the trees. Katniss sings a few notes and the mockingjays listen, repeating back the tune when she has finished.

"Just like your father," says Peeta.

My sister watches the forest, touching her pin. She speaks softly, slowly, her thoughts working through a maze to find expression. "That's Rue's song. I think they remember it."

Everyone in Panem certainly remembers it. There's something soothing about Katniss truly caring for the little tribute from another district. It's hard for District 12 residents to watch the cruelty on screen. So... unexpected to see anything else. The mockingjays sing on, their strains becoming a harmony of repetition.

The tributes from District 12 listen to the tune when suddenly the birds screech in terror, taking to flight. That awful noise of Cato's pursuing beasts rises from the forest. Peeta draws a knife and Katniss strings an arrow, standing at the ready, her glare pierces at the forest. Cato punches through the brush and charges them, his face fossilized in aggressive exertion.

Katniss fires her arrow. It thumps against Cato's chest and falls away harmlessly. "He's got some kind of body armor!" She screams.

Peeta prepares to take Cato's impact, but the boy from District 2 zips right between them, legs churning toward the cornucopia. The wolves break through the edge of the forest and run forward on two legs, no longer having to avoid the hazards in the woods.

Shock hits Katniss and Peeta and they follow Cato's path, directly for the golden cornucopia that gleams dark, chrome yellow, reflecting the tones of the evening sky. Cato has already reached the pinnacle of the horn. He falls haggardly to the metal, trying to regain his wind.

Katniss climbs up the weave along the tail of the horn, Peeta follows close. The Muttations are almost upon him! I shiver in terror. Katniss turns to help him, "Climb!" She fires an arrow and one of the wolf-things thrashes and drops with a gut-wrenching scream.

Katniss grabs Peeta's arm to pull him up the length of the horn. In the din of snarls, the Muttations gather around the cornucopia. The kids scream at each other, Cato's voice too weak to be heard. He's on his knees now, hacking.

The mutts sniff the metal and try to jump up its length, but their claws are designed for murder, not perch. One of the things roars at Katniss as it hangs onto the gleaming surface. She screams. Peeta grabs her arm. She points frantically at the howling Muttation, "It's her!"

"Who?" Peeta shouts the question being wondered aloud in the square. Katniss' eyes dart around the pack of fur and grow wider with each second. Peeta insists, "What is it, Katniss?"

"It's them! It's all of them!" Her voice breaks with disgust. "The others! Rue and Foxface and... all of the other tributes!"

Peeta sees it too; the horrible eyes of the animals almost aglow with the original eye color of each dead tribute, almost sub-human. On the Muttation's necks there are collars with district numbers stitched into the fabric. People in the square begin to moan at the appalling display. Did the Capitol really put the eyes of the dead inside these awful beasts?

My dinner comes back up with shuddering disgust. Mom pats my back. People step aside from the mess, one man hands me a handkerchief and tells me to keep it. I accept and wipe my face. The dreadful noise from the broadcast continues. Peeta says something that's confused in my ears.

Then he screams and Katniss yells, "Kill it, Peeta! Kill it!"

I'm afraid to look, although I'm more afraid of not seeing what is happening. On the screen, Peeta is behind Katniss, higher up the horn, his lower left leg a mess, blood even squirting from the bite wound with each heartbeat. Cato grabs Peeta in a headlock, Peeta thrashes, his blood spattering over Katniss.

The pack still struggles to crawl up the metal, but Katniss ignores them completely. In a scant few frames, Katniss has an arrow nocked, ready to fly into Cato's smiling face. The Career boy laughs as he backs toward the edge of the horn, over the gaping interior. "Shoot me and he goes down with me."

Katniss' aim doesn't shift even as the wheels can be seen turning behind her eyes. Peeta's leg still spurts blood down the cornucopia's curved side. One of the Muttations licks it. My stomach twists. I have nothing else to throw up. The image splits into two, one showing Cato and Peeta as the bigger boy confidently stands his ground at the edge. The other side shows Katniss her aim unwavering, face twisted into her darkest scowl ever.

Peeta solves the standoff, gingerly lifting a finger and bleeding an X onto Cato's hand, in the headlock. Katniss' lips slip upward almost unnoticeably. Cato's smile fades as he realizes what's coming. There's nothing he can do. The arrow jumps from Katniss' bow to Cato's hand and buries itself deep, pulling through completely. Cato tries to hold onto Peeta with his weakened arm. He falls and Peeta slips over the edge! Katniss grabs his shirt and yanks him back!

Cato slams into the stone at the base of the cornucopia and struggles to stand up. He draws a short knife from his ankle and swings missing the first mutt that jumps past him. Others circle around and Cato swings professionally, each slash finding some part of the Muttations. It takes a lot to stop those creatures though and with each minute of evasion, fatigue draws nearer. Adrenalin will only carry him so far past his starvation.

Katniss and Peeta hold each other, blood dripping down the golden metal. Cato's awful fight drags out for an amazing length of time. The Capitol must adore this, I grumble. Cato slashes and dodges, the mutts take their time nipping at him whenever his back is turned. Finally, a mutt behind Cato pounces and slams him into the dirt. The others are on him in an instant and the pack drags his still struggling form into the cornucopia.

And still Cato lives! The chain armor prevents the beasts from biting through his flesh. His screams are weakening, not final.

Katniss examines Peeta, his further mangled leg. She pulls off her shirt and tugs her jacket back on rapidly to block out the evening chill. Katniss wisely wraps the shirt around his awful leg for a tourniquet, twisting it tight with an arrow, her last. Peeta's skin grays toward a shade of white. "Don't go to sleep." Katniss says shakily.

Peeta's voice is distant, though still concerned for her. "Are you cold?" Peeta unzips his jacket and Katniss lays across him so he can zip it back up. They whisper to each other, microphones incapable of picking up their words over the din of Cato's tormented moaning and the mutts' ravenous gnawing on him.

We continue to watch, although nothing more happens. The cameras can't get a shot of the mutt's human feast inside the cornucopia, not for want of trying. The demented Gamemakers show every bit of evil fur they can. Revolting! The Gamemaker's playthings, unleashed for the glee of cheering fanatics in the Capitol. Peeta may bleed to death before the Games are finished, at this rate, and no one should be tortured like this, not even Cato.

The sickening show drags on for an hour until some of the business people convince us to go home. The walk is quiet. I feel dizzy. The world is an unpleasant, sickly shade of dark. Will I ever be able to get the gruesome images out of my mind or the sounds either? Mom says nothing, her own skin pale.

"Prim!" A voice calls out behind us as we near the edge of the Seam and our home. Mom and I turn. It's Madge, her golden hair flowing behind her as she runs up panting. "I wanted to see how you guys were doing."

My eyes gleam and Madge looks away blushing. "I mean, I want to make sure you're okay tonight."

"That's..." Mom starts. "very thoughtful of you, Madge. Would you like to come inside with us?"

She nods and the three of us continue into the house. It's deathly quiet. Buttercup meows faintly for attention. He hops into my lap as soon as I sit in front of the television, its screen off. No one has the willingness to turn it on.

"Would you girls like any tea?" Mom asks. I shake my head and Madge doesn't answer. "Me either," Mom nods.

Madge sits next to me flicking at Buttercup's tail, her thoughts elsewhere like mine. I scratch at the cat's neck feeling him purr into my knees.

"Madge, where have you been? No one's seen you at school for days." Words fly out before I realize they had crossed my mind.

When she doesn't answer, Mom asks, "Have you been sick, dear?"

Madge shakes her head, "I just needed some time to think things over."

I don't have the energy to inquire further. I reach forward and turn on the television. Nothing has changed. Night is full in the arena, the awful condition drags on.

We don't sleep. Not a single wink between us. Madge cries for a while, her head in her hands, her back heaving in sorrows. We don't ask why. We don't need to. My stability has been shot for the past month, my world devastated. Late into night, Madge recovers from the bout of crying and begs forgiveness, "I'm sorry. I'm-" She sniffs.

Mom rubs her back, "It's okay, dear. Don't apologize."

Madge shakes her head, "It's not that. I... I've done something that might come back against my father and..." She sobs and tries to control herself.

"What did you do, Madge?" Mom's voice is soothing, in spite of the moans coming from the television. The mayor's daughter just shakes her head in silent despair. Within minutes, she's back to her normal, calm, isolated self. Only vague, red inflammation from weeping reminds me of her outburst. Whatever she did to upset Mayor Undersee, it must be serious. I put Buttercup in Madge's lap for her comfort and stand up to make the tea we declined several hours ago.

Years seem to pass before the night does; the sun rises slowly here and finally cracks the darkness in the west. Cato's moans have died down to half-hearted, raw-voiced rasps. Only heavy breathing of the wolf-tribute Muttations accompany the image.

With morning breaking over the arena, Peeta says to Katniss, "I think he's closer now. Katniss, can you shoot him?"

She looks away from his gaze. "My last arrow's in your tourniquet."

Peeta unzips his jacket so that she can stand. "Make it count."

She pulls out the arrow, knotting the shirt. Blood still seeps out of the wound nevertheless. Katniss leans over the edge of the horn and gazes inside for a shot. In a second she's found Cato and with Peeta holding on to her legs, she shoots her last arrow into him. His death notification flashes up on screen. The agonized whimpers have ceased.

I'm leaning forward, my toes touching the floor, hands clasped in disgusted excitement. Peeta speaks hypnotically, almost dully, "Then we won, Katniss."

"Hurray for us," she replies. My sister's tone is as famished as her body. Where the feast table was, the ground splits open and the Muttations leap into the den, peaceful and calm. The ground closes. Nothing happens. No aircraft comes to retrieve Cato's body, no triumphantly menacing anthem of Panem to signal the end of the Hunger Games. Nothing at all.

"Hey! What's going on?" Katniss yells at the sky.

"Maybe it's the body." Peeta wonders. "Maybe we have to move away from it."

"Okay. Think you could make it to the lake?"

"Think I better try," Peeta nods.

The pair slides down the slick metal and stumble across the plain. Peeta hardly manages to move his left leg, dragging it almost the entire distance. Katniss gives him a drink of water and one for herself. Cato's body is snagged by a claw from an aircraft and lifted away. Still no anthem.

"What... are they waiting for?" Peeta's skin is a glassy slate of grey and white, the tone of extreme, catastrophic blood loss. I've seen it before. None of our patients who had lost that much blood survived. We have nothing to transfuse into their systems and that's the only hope they could have had. The Gamemakers could help Peeta, except they refrain from declaring the victors of the Hunger Games.

Katniss looks around on the ground. "I don't know." She wanders a small way and then kneels down to pick up the arrow that had been defeated by Cato's armor the previous night. An announcement from Claudius Templesmith commences, booming across Panem.

"Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed. Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor."

"Oh, no." Madge moans.

My hands fall into my lap, my jaw hanging open. "Mom? Mom, how can they do that? They said they could both win... They can't just take it back!"

On the screen Katniss and Peeta stare at each other, their gaunt faces ripe with freshened sorrow. They have been toyed with, manipulated. Their puppet strings were pulled by the Gamemakers to heighten the emotional zeal of the Capitol's crowds.

Mom reaches a hand to me and runs her fingers through my hair. "I know, Prim. I know."

Madge is silent once more. Her left hand squeezed into a tight fist and pressed against her face. Her eyes are soaked and threatening to drain across her gentle face.

"It's not right!" I insist, knowing that justice isn't a concern for the Capitol, holds no bearing on their decisions.

Peeta looks at Katniss and speaks gently, "If you think about it, it's not that surprising." He takes a few steps toward her. His hand pulls a knife from his belt. Katniss swiftly strings the arrow and aims for his chest. Peeta's hand never changes course, throwing the knife away.

Katniss realizes her act exposed betrayal and drops the bow and arrow to the ground, blushing with self-loathing.

"No." Peeta picks up the bow and the arrow, almost losing his balance and puts them in Katniss' hands. "Do it."

Katniss shakes her head. "I can't. I won't!"

"Do it. Before they send those mutts back or something. I don't want to die like Cato."

"Then you shoot me!" Katniss pushes the bow toward Peeta. "You shoot me and go home and live with it!"

Madge whimpers lightly, matching me.

"You know I can't," Peeta tosses the weapons away, his voice soft, resigned to the sacrifice. "Fine. I'll go first anyway." He pulls the tourniquet off his thigh and his remaining blood flows to the ground.

Katniss throws herself down, tries to wrap the mangled shirt around his calf. "No, you can't kill yourself." She's almost in tears.

"Katniss... it's what I want."

"You're not leaving me here alone!"

Peeta tugs Katniss' to her feet. "Listen. We both know they have to have a victor. It can only be one of us. Please, take it. For me."

His eyes glaze as his words pour from his heart. "All that Panem has to offer me is right here in the arena. All I've ever wanted from life is you. If you die here, I can never live again! I love you, Katniss. I've spent my whole life loving you."

Katniss stares at him, her eyes far-away, brow furled in concentration. Then she grabs at a bag on her belt with sudden swiftness that alerts Peeta.

"No, I won't let you!" His voice surges with strength and determination.

Katniss leans in and kisses his cheek. The two tributes stare into each other's eyes for what must be an eternity. She pours the bag's contents into Peeta's hand and then grabs a handful of the nightlock berries in her own, the dark fruit spills to the ground. "On the count of three?"

"No! Katniss, no!" My voice screams and I jump off the couch, trembling. Mom encloses me in her arms and I struggle to see the screen.

"Hold them out. I want everyone to see." Peeta's going along with this? He was giving my sister the chance to come home and she's throwing it away!

"No!" My voice yelps pitifully. "Just come home, Katniss! He wants you to come home!" I swing a frustrated fist at the screen, too far away to hit the television. Katniss gave me the same gift she's rejecting from Peeta right now. I came to grips with it! Why can't she? She has to come home!

The shots tighten on the pair of tributes, dark berries gleaming in the morning sun. "One... Two... Three!"

"Nooooo!" My voice drowns out the audio as Katniss and Peeta put nightlock into their mouths. But they don't chew or swallow. Their ears perk up to listen.

When I finally cut off my screaming, I can hear Templesmith's voice again, "am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark! I give you - the tributes of District Twelve!"

My heart almost stops. Katniss played a dangerous ruse! They spit out the berries and promptly wash out their mouths with filthy, hopefully nonpoisonous, lake water. They're both coming home; Katniss' cunning has defeated the Gamemakers' schemes. The Hunger Games has two victors this year and my sister has won!

She said she would try to win for me and I know she wanted to the whole time. Still, something deep within my stirs, wondering whether she would have gone through with the suicide, whether it was a bluff. Peeta was obviously ready to die for her. With his weak condition, he may, just yet. Was she really going to kill herself for this boy? Even if that meant not keeping her promise to win for me? Did she think about me in those seconds?

The tributes are picked up by a hovercraft and the broadcast begins to replay elaborate cuts of Peeta and Katniss, their interviews, their kills, their flights and fights. My own thoughts shift away from what might have been. I'm just ecstatic at what is.

Madge joins the celebration and jumps up and down with me. It's silly, but irresistible. It's been almost a month since I was selected in the reaping and there's finally real cause to celebrate! Mom sits down and lays back on the couch, her eyes closed, beautiful face smiling like she can finally breathe now.

When we finally calm down, the glow of joy beaming, I remember the rest of District 12. What do people do when there's a victor? We have two this year! The Hunger Games are certainly awful, but do we still celebrate as a district? Of course the families celebrate. I wonder who Haymitch's family was and how they handled his victory decades ago. Where are they now?

Madge wipes her face with her sleeve, happiness streaming down her cheeks. "Isn't it wonderful, Madge? Katniss and Peeta are coming home!"

She smiles and chokes out a few words through her joyful weeping. "Better than I ever could've hoped for."


	27. Chapter 27

27

I was in the hammock for four full days. Longer than I can remember anyone being subjected to that ultimate wretchedness. Sunday, the only day off in Panem, was to be the day of my execution. The Peacekeepers were worried that I wouldn't be able to stand on my own, so late Saturday night they released me from the outdoor shackles and placed me in a holding cell. It has a cot, a sheet, and a hole for bodily refuse.

Paralyzing soreness prevented willful movement of my arms and my legs. The limbs ache with prolonged hypoxia. All I could do is lay still and try to rest. Friday morning, Katniss and Peeta had both won the Hunger Games, something which never happened before. District 11's people celebrated for the pair from 12, something which had also never happened. Everywhere, mockingjay pins ornamented residents.

Surprisingly, my impending execution wasn't bothering me. Four days in the Peacekeeper's hateful custody instilled within me a strong measure of internal strength, while stealing it from my physical form. The brokenness of my torture is gone. Bad as the electrical charge was, the hammock was worse: slower, longer, more complete in exacting despair and pain.

I am ready now. It's the Peacekeepers who are not. My execution is to be an event of mandatory attendance for all in District 11, just like the reapings. So, I must remain absolutely defiant until the end. I would rather hang than take back my actions! Even the inflow of Peacekeeper reinforcements doesn't change that. Our oppressors can die like the rest of us. Just takes someone putting them in death's way and now that secret dream in each mind has been given demonstration.

Jura Penrose is dead and gone, body sent back to where ever he was from and probably buried already. I don't regret that some may mourn him. I don't regret anything.

There is one nagging item that simply refuses to allow me full relaxation on the luxurious cot: Volente Covas. Keva's words sank in over the eternal days in the hammock. In context of having to maintain his cover, it makes sense that Covas did what he did. He couldn't investigate a Peacekeeper because that would mean he'd be pegged and then whatever ability he has to change things in Panem would be lost. And what of Mason?

What must it be like, I wonder, to sit in such an office and not merely abide within an awful system, but to carry out its detestable crimes? Covas grew up in the Capitol so maybe those deeds are easier for him than it would be for anyone else. What is it like knowing how devoid of dignity that place is and yet have to serve it so willingly? How many years had Covas been a part of the underground?

I couldn't take a single year without rebelling. Of course, I lost my son. Covas had to have been in contact with Scipio for several years, otherwise the trust Scipio places in him wouldn't be nearly so strong. Most likely, the underground leader has been in contact with Covas for years, since before the Capitol promoted him to Captain and assigned him to track down insurrectionist agents.

It was in front of me all this time. Who better to seek that position than someone who can use it to the underground's advantage? What better person is there to delay and mislead the Capitol but their own trusted and forever loyal appointee? But Covas had to commit atrocities to get that position. I'm not the only person that knows him to be brutal and heartless. Was everything he did out of necessity? It really doesn't matter, now.

I have no sense of time in this blank room because it has no windows, nor a clock. They leave the lights on. I drift in and out of sleep until the door opens and men are here to take me to my end.

They have to help me walk. My legs are still stiff and cold from mistreatment. Stairs are particularly difficult. The Peacekeepers don't say anything. They hate me and they relish seeing my doom. I understand that. My gut thirsted for Peacekeeper blood as I walked out of the Main Office, having rigged it to collapse.

We pause near the front entrance of the Justice Building, I breathe deep a few times. The mayor is giving a vitriolic, propaganda-laced speech outside. We wait until he beckons to bring me forward. Three Corners is absolutely soundless. No songs drift over the currents of wind. No birds lighten the mood. Thousands of people crowded into the triangular plaza watch with sculpted stillness as I am taken onto the platform.

The mayor reads another prepared statement. "Kippen Silvernale. For acts of extreme barbarism, for treasonous destruction of Capitol property and the terrorist slaying of twenty-six members of the Capitol's Peacekeeper Corps, and for the heinous murder of a Peacekeeper in cold blood, you are hereby condemned to hang by the neck until your breath is extinguished. Your death shall serve as an example that no upright civilization can tolerate wanton acts of violence and chaos, that our just society is impenetrable to destructive minds like yours."

Oddly, his words aren't terribly far off from what I would have said to him if the situation were reversed and I was ordering the mayor's execution for his acts toward the residents of District 11. My stare finds Captain Covas among the uniformed ranks of Peacekeeper officers, bolstered by recent reinforcements. His face is masked, devoid of emotion. If he really is a member of the underground, he's the most controlled member they have. He watches my execution without a hint of anything behind his eyes.

I survey the crowd, looking for my wife or my sister's family. There're too many faces. My eyes blur. Resigned to my fate as I might be, it's still my demise. The mayor nods toward a Peacekeeper wearing a hood. The man moves me into place on the platform and slips a thick rope over my neck, tightening the noose.

Deep breaths. Commanding myself, I look out at the crowd and raise my chin. The executioner ties my uselessly weak hands behind my back. Thousands of eyes watch, none blinking. Mockingjay pins glitter on every chest or collar in the crowd.

I don't expect peace to settle over me. I'm going into the beyond, with no understanding of what I leave behind or what lies before me, probably nothing. A bitter smile settles across my cheeks. This execution can't take away what I've done. I won't let them receive regret from me either. The world holds silent before me.

The platform falls away.

**epilogue**

Peacekeepers hold the crowds back at the train station so the cameras can get decent shots of the tributes' homecoming. Hundreds have packed into the tiny station to greet Katniss and Peeta. We families are sequestered off to one side, slightly closer. The train slides to a sluggish stop, its magnetic station brakes engage with dull, electric thunks. Cameramen crowd around each other trying to get different angles of Katniss and Peeta as the doors open and the pair step out, hand in hand.

They're better fed, though they could both use weeks more of a regular diet. All their scars have been smoothed away by the wondrous surgical technology in the Capitol. Even with that miraculous equipment, Peeta's left leg had to be replaced with a mechanical prosthetic.

I can't contain myself, practically jumping on my toes when I see Katniss. The cameras get their fill as the two tributes move past them, toward us, waving to applause. I break free of Mom's restraining grip and dodge Darius, the redheaded Peacekeeper. It's a short sprint to Katniss.

"Prim!" Her voice dances with joy and she lets go of Peeta's hand to open her arms to me. My momentum knocks her back a step. Katniss laughs squeezing me tight against herself. Her hair smells of flowers and she whispers into my ear. "I really, really tried."

Somewhere behind me the crowd is awing. I just hug her tighter, laughing and crying and shivering with delight. The cameras capture the shot as Mom joins us. Katniss doesn't push her back, for now at least, savoring the reunion.

When we finally move further down the platform, I insist on holding my sister's hand. She's gained back much of her weight lost in the arena, still thinner than when she left. Once my emotional enthusiasm is back under control, I manage a few words. "Katniss?" She looks at me as we walk; a rare, contented smile still plastered across her face. "Thank you for volunteering." I regret the sentiment as soon as it sputters out. I try to cover up. "I'm-I'm sorry you had to."

She kisses the bow in my hair and squeezes my hand. "I know, Prim. It's okay."

Obligatory celebrations are put on, filmed for the Capitol's partying crowds, even Mayor Undersee's speech. They party every year. I've never experienced a victor's feast. Frankly, no one wants this absurd commemoration because it reminds us of the Hunger Games. If the Games must happen though, no better outcome could possibly be foreseen. No one ever thought there could be more than one victor. So we celebrate and give the Capitol a good show.

Why not? They've brought in a bountiful feast that could feed the whole District for the rest of the year, if the food would keep. Might as well enjoy it. It's better even than the meal I had at Mayor Undersee's house. There's dancing too all throughout the evening and the cameras can't get enough hours of Peeta and Katniss' dancing a traditional District 12 step. I didn't even know my sister could dance!

Gale hugs her several times, but the cameras don't really notice him any more than anyone else. He even dances with her momentarily. The Gamemakers never showed much of his interview, and somewhere in the broadcasts, Gale had been mentioned as a cousin to the Everdeen family. That's not true and everyone in District 12 knows it's not true. Maybe it's just for the perfected image of Peeta wooing Katniss. We dare not contradict the Gamemakers' delusions.

The evening is too public for any of her real feelings to be revealed. After the first meal, I catch on that Katniss is playing her part. She's thrilled to be home, I can see that. She really wants to be _home_ though. Back in our house, or the new one that is being given to Katniss as a victor. We'll live among a dozen houses which, until recently, were unoccupied, save for Haymitch Abernathy.

Where is Haymitch anyway? Oh, there he is. Over at the makeshift bar, across the square, drinking and talking with some man. Of course, drinking! For all his faults, Peeta and Katniss are both alive. That redeems the man from his stupor-inspired disgraces, in my book.

All the attention is surreal. Other kids treat me nicely: tell me how happy they are for us and how proud they are of their mockingjay pins. Katniss still wears the one she has, the original. I get a closer look at it. It's real gold and polished shiny, the intricate detail of feather lines etched into the bird. Very beautiful. It fits Katniss' persona somehow.

Madge approaches the tributes later on in the night and hugs them both warmly. I don't think she's friends with Peeta. She's not really friends with anyone besides Katniss.

As the celebrations wind down and people begin to leave for home, Madge stands off by herself watching the festivities slow. I approach her with an extra glass of chocolate milk. "Too much noise, Madge?"

Tired, worn beneath her eyes, her smile is faint as if the Hunger Games are not yet resolved. "Just needed some air, Prim. Thanks." She accepts the milk and sips it.

I can't get enough of the stuff although my tummy is begging for me to regulate consumption. "You're pretty close to Katniss then, huh?"

Madge shakes her head a little, "We keep each other at arms length." More dancing breaks out in the square, two goofy boys prance around the stone to laughter and claps of onlookers. "It's just nice that she's back and Peeta too."

I nod into the glass, spilling milk over my cheeks. Good thing this blouse is dark. I wipe off what chocolate milk I can. "It looked like you were having as much trouble as I was. You were out of school even." The milk smears. "What was that thing with your dad?"

She reaches over and dabs the spot with a napkin. "Sometimes, Prim... The right thing to do is more difficult than you think."

"Like Katniss volunteering for me." My tone is reverent. I watch my sister, carefree after a month of fierce hardship.

"And just because it was hard to do, doesn't mean it wasn't right." Madge's eyes solidify into confidence. "We have to do what is right... No matter what."

I smile at her, "Thanks, Madge."

She grins back, "Careful with that stuff, Prim. Too much can make you sick."

"We'll see!"

She laughs after me as I skip off to sneak another cup. Katniss comes over to me pats the top of my head. "Have you grown since I left, Prim?"

"Maybe... Have I?"

Katniss runs her flattened hand across my scalp and it intersects her chin. When she left, I was only as tall as her neck. "I think you have."

She's right. I have grown. Maybe a little in stature. A lot more in heart.


End file.
